


Collared

by dragonimp



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-03
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 48,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonimp/pseuds/dragonimp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed is captured as a prisoner of war, and ends up as the personal hostage of the field commander, one Roy Mustang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Capture

"Four of the resistance fighters were captured," Lieutenant Hawkeye reported as they approached the makeshift POW camp.  "No major casualties, but nine soldiers are currently out of action.  At last word, they were still . . . stuck."

One corner of Roy's mouth twitched with amusement in spite of himself.  "Another booby-trap?"

"Yes, sir.  The men are working on extracting them but it may take several hours."

_Someone_ in this city had quite a sense of humor. The design of the traps was ingenious, really. They were never lethal, but always caused plenty of inconvenience and lost resources.  So far no one had been able to figure out how something so elaborate could get set up so quickly. Roy had his suspicions, but nothing he wanted to send to the higher-ups just yet. Accusations of that sort could have serious consequences.

"Any casualties among the prisoners?"

"None reported."

"Have them checked over by a medic anyway."

"Yes sir."

He schooled his face to a distant mask before they entered the courtyard.  At the far end, the prisoners were being searched and registered. They would be relieved of anything deemed dangerous or suspicious, then collared and given a set of clothes before being locked behind the high fences with the other POWs.

Roy hated this procedure. Controlling prisoners was a necessary part of war, but a battlefield shouldn't be an excuse to treat another human being—other Amestiran citizens, in this case—like so much livestock. But it was mandated by the state, and as field commander he had to oversee it.

As field commander he was also expected to choose one of the prisoners as a personal hostage. On paper it was a way to acquire knowledge about the enemy. Get in close, get to know your opponent, glean the kind of information that can only be won through prolonged association. But in practice it usually served much more base desires. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth, but he knew he'd have to address this eventually. He hoped to put it off for as long as possible. Like maybe until they transfered him out.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when a prisoner at the far end of the field, a small blond boy, punched one guard in the gut and twisted out of the grasp of another. Roy tensed and pressed his thumb and fingers together, but hesitated, waiting to see how this would play out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his lieutenant draw her gun, but not take aim. The guards should be able to handle a solitary prisoner, especially one that looked only half-grown.

Two nearby soldiers immediately cut the boy off and tried to restrain him. It seemed ridiculously unfair, the boy didn't even come to their shoulders. But as Roy watched, one soldier stumbled back from a blow to the face while the other was lifted off his feet and dropped flat on his back. The sun flashed off a blade in the boy's hand—no _over_ his hand—and Roy raised his hand. He'd let the kid get a few feet away before stopping him.

It turned out to be unnecessary. A guard caught the kid in the back of the knee with a baton, and the soldier with the bloody nose tackled him. The two of them held the writhing, cursing boy pinned while another guard grabbed his arm, using his weight to pin the bladed wrist to the ground while he groped at the shoulder for the catch to the prosthetic. The boy thrashed and spat a venomous curse as the metal arm fell free.

The two men struggled to hold the captive while the guard stood with his prize. "Little shit," he muttered—and slammed the toe of his boot into the kid's ribs.

The guard got in another solid kick and had pulled his foot back for a third before Roy could shout, " _Enough_!"

The colonel glared cooly at the now-frozen tableau. The soldiers and guards looked startled and nervous, but not nearly as contrite as he would have liked. The boy snarled up from the ground, glaring at him through a fringe of dingy hair, far from cowed. That decided him.

"Have that one cleaned up and sent to my quarters," he barked.  "I _don't_ want him damaged further.  _Understood_?"

" _Yessir_!"

He turned his attention to the other prisoners, effecting cool indifference and ignoring the covert stares from his soldiers and the mix of fear and relief from the prisoners.

Hawkeye met his eye briefly before dropping her gaze to make a notation on her clipboard.  To anyone else she would have looked at most mildly disapproving, but to Roy her expression spoke loud and clear:  _I hope you know what you're doing_.

He suppressed a grimace. He sincerely hoped that he did.


	2. Chapter 1: the Options Before Us

"Looking forward to getting back to your quarters, sir?"

Roy gave Havoc a flat look as the lieutenant fell into step beside him. He had been wondering how long it would take before the ribbing started. "Is there something you _need_ , lieutenant?"

Havoc chuckled and shook his head. "Nah. But tell that kid he owes me a rifle."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he sliced my best one clean through." He tossed off a flippant salute as he turned toward the officer's mess.

The colonel allowed himself a small sigh. His decision to take the young prisoner had been spur of the moment. He didn't regret it—at least, not yet. On the plus side, this fulfilled what was expected of him as field commander and would keep the higher ups off his back, even if his choice was a bit . . . outside of the norm. But just what was he going to _do_ with the kid?

When he opened the door to his quarters things were surprisingly quiet. A covered food tray sat on the table, and beyond that the boy was perched on the edge of the bed, resting his chin on a knee and glaring. He'd cleaned up well; Roy judged him to be in his mid-teens, compact but with the build of someone used to physical activity. The flesh-and-blood arm the boy had draped around his metal leg was well toned, with a few pale scars visible from across the room. His pose was casual but he was not relaxed, and he was eyeing the colonel with a scowl, challenge and contempt clear in his pale eyes. Roy smirked in acknowledgement.

He strolled to the table and uncovered the tray, revealing bread, cheeses, and dried fruit. At that moment the boy's stomach let out a loud growl, and his scowl deepened into a snarl. The colonel glanced at the untouched platter in brief confusion, but when he glanced up to the chain securing the prisoner to the wall he nearly winced. The chain had been latched so far up its length that there was no way the boy could get to the table. He was sitting at the end of its reach already, about halfway down the bed.

Roy clenched his jaw to keep from frowning outright. It seemed he needed to give another talk about unnecessary cruelty and the proper treatment of prisoners. Schooling his expression, he set the cover down next to the tray and approached the prisoner. The boy turned, lowering his feet to the floor. He seemed ready to spring from the bed at a moment's notice. Roy wondered what he thought he might accomplish, missing an arm and chained as he was, but he had to admire the attitude.

He tapped the wall next to the chain. "If I let you up, will you behave?"

The kid glared at him for a moment, the desire to rebel written clearly on his face. He was obviously not one inclined to give in, whatever the circumstances. But he shot a glance toward the food tray, his jaw working as he fought some sort of internal battle. After a long moment, he gave a curt nod, his stomach apparently winning out, his glare challenging the other man to make something of it.

Roy held the boy's eye for a moment before turning to unlock the chain. So far he'd seen defiance and anger from the kid. He didn't seem like the conniving type, but the colonel knew better than to drop his guard. For one thing, he looked like the type who might try to jump him, damn the odds, and he really didn't want to have to hurt the boy.

Once it was released he ran the chain through his hand to the end; it would have been plenty long enough to reach the table. In fact, it would probably have given him most of the room.

The boy hadn't moved, still glaring skeptically, no doubt wondering if the chain was going to be pulled up short. Smirking, Roy showed him that he held the end link, then gestured toward the table.

The kid shot off the bed and sprinted to the food, immediately grabbing a handful and shoving it into his mouth.

"Careful," Roy chuckled. "You might choke, and then I'd be out a prisoner."

He paused long enough to flip him off, then resumed stuffing his face.

The colonel shook his head; this kid wouldn't have lasted a day with the POW guards.

The boy's hair was loose, trailing to an end between his shoulder blades and leaving wet splotches on his tunic. It was an unusual color and quite striking, but was caught Roy's attention was the flash of red that he saw beneath the gold strands, just over the silvery metal of the collar. He reached over and brushed the hair back, and sure enough, there was an angry red line of pinched skin where the collar had been snapped on. It was crusted over with fresh scabs and didn't seem to be currently bleeding, and the area had been cleaned, but he would have to tell the guards to be more careful.

It seemed he had a lot to discuss with the guards.

The boy flinched, and was watching him out of the corner of his eye, wariness momentarily overriding his hunger. Roy smirked and let the hair slide from his fingers, then grabbed the hem of the boy's tunic.

He flinched again, his arm snapping up only to be pulled short at the last moment, as if the boy had suddenly remembered his situation. "What the hell're you doing?" he snapped as he tried to skitter away.

"Assessing," Roy answered calmly, trying to hide his amusement. Mostly. "I need to know what sort of shape you're in."

The kid looked like he was seriously considering introducing the older man to his fist, but he held himself in check, twitching and flinching as Roy's fingers brushed against his ribs. It seemed he _could_ behave, when he felt like it.

He slowly circled the boy, mentally cataloging the injuries he could see. The bruises from the guard's boot looked painful, but when he ran his fingers over them the boy's reaction didn't indicate cracked ribs. There were some other, older discolorations and scrapes. Nothing that looked serious, but this obviously hadn't been his first skirmish. He'd have to check the reports again; a blond boy should have stood out among the mostly dark-featured desert citizens.

Roy smoothed the boy's tunic and stepped back. The young man was watching him out of the corner of his eye, his expression guarded and hostile. But there was a definite blush across his cheeks.

The older man smirked, lowering himself into a chair and casually resting his ankle on his knee. The game just took on a new dimension. "Please. Have a seat." He used the end of the chain to gesture toward the second chair.

The boy snarled down at the metal links, but edged over to the chair. He perched on the edge, clear of the table and angled so that his missing arm was facing away. Automatically minimizing his disadvantages. Interesting.

Roy tapped the chain against his boot. "Come now, I'm not going to bite." He smiled. "Unless you desire it."

The blush flared up even stronger than before and the boy glared, before stuffing a hunk of cheese in his mouth as if it was an act of defiance.

The colonel chuckled to himself. He had no taste for an unwilling bedmate and despised the way most hostages got treated. The very thought of ordering someone into that sort of situation turned his stomach. But seduction? That was a different game entirely. He would have to play his moves carefully, but the potential reward would be worth so much more.

"Now then," he continued. "What's your name?"

The kid glanced up from where his gaze had fallen onto Roy's gloved hand. "Wha'd'you care?" Said through a mouthful of food.

"Well, I'll have to call you _something_. Unless you're good with 'Goldilocks'."

The boy sputtered and choked, slapping a hand over his mouth as he glared. It seemed to be his default expression.

"No?" Roy mused, helping himself to a piece of dried fruit. "You'll have to give me something better to work with, then."

He swallowed and coughed, and finally cleared his mouth. "M'name's _Ed_. Fuckin' bastard."

"Just 'Ed'? No family name?"

He shrugged, the gesture lopsided. "Does it matter?" His attention flicked again, caught by Roy's glove.

"I suppose not," Roy allowed. "So tell me, Ed: where are you from?"

Pale eyes snapped back up to his and narrowed. "How d'you know I'm not from here?"

The older man chuckled. "Your coloring, for one. You're clearly not native to this area. And your accent, for another. Eastern area, yes, but farther south. Not the desert."

Ed flushed and glared.

"As for your features. . . ." Roy took a moment to study the boy up close. His hair wasn't simply blond but a deep gold, and his eyes very nearly matched. They had an unusual shape, and combined with his strong cheekbones, upturned nose, and wide, expressive mouth, made him look just a touch exotic. Not someone who couldn't blend in with a crowd, but not a typical Amestrian. "I have to admit, you have me stumped. I might want to say Drachman if your skin were lighter, but that's not quite right."

He scoffed around a piece of bread. "Y'r one t'talk." He swallowed, then added, "What are you, from Xing or something?"

Roy smirked. "I can assure you, I was born in Amestris."

Ed hmphed and helped himself to another piece of fruit.

The colonel tapped the chain against his boot and watched as the boy's gaze drifted down to his glove once more. This wasn't innocent curiosity or confusion, he recognized the bright red stitching for what it was. The question was how much did he understand the array, and what did it mean to him. Despite his straightforward rural speech, there was intelligence behind those unusual eyes, and the kid obviously had a history. Having him as a hostage just might prove insightful.

Roy stood, and casually stretched his back. "It's been a long day, and I think I should like a bath. You will assist me with that, of course."

Ed's hand froze halfway to the platter. "Y'mean, draw the water and set stuff out?"

"Mm. And then stay on hand. For anything I might want you to . . . _assist_ me with."

"While—while you're—"

"While I'm in the bath, yes."

He smirked down at the horrified embarrassment. He did have some sympathy for what must be going through the kid's mind, but that was a card that he didn't mean to show just yet.

* * *

Ed huddled under the blankets on the narrow military cot he'd been given. It really wasn't fair that this area went from scorching during the day, to downright _icy_ as soon as the sun set. Between the shifting extremes of temperature and the sand, his ports were aching almost constantly.

"Warm enough over there?" his bastard keeper asked from the other side of the room. Ed just grunted. "It wouldn't do for you to catch a chill, there'd be far too much paperwork."

"M'fine," he insisted.

"Mm."

Ed stared at the wall and waited, but aside from the sound of papers rustling, the room was silent. He let out his breath as quietly as he could, and tugged the blankets up further. He'd been feeling exposed and vulnerable ever since they'd taken his arm, and the collar and chain weren't helping any. He could still feel that man's fingers ghosting over his ribs, and it made his skin crawl. He hated to be touched when he couldn't control it, and right now it seemed like just about everything was outside of his control. He kept expecting to feel hands on him again, or to hear an order, or—something. Everyone knew the rumors of how hostages were treated, and after what happened to Rosé—Ed had been in a state of _dread_ ever since the commander had singled him out. And after the way things went in the bathroom, he'd been sure the git would try something. He'd certainly been hinting broadly enough. _And_ had made sure Ed had had a good— _view_.

He tugged a fold of the blankets over his face as he felt his cheeks heating up. What was the guy's name? Mustang? Ed had the fleeting thought that it wasn't entirely . . . _inaccurate_.

Ed groaned into his pillow and scrubbed his hand over his face. All right, so the bastard had a . . . _decent_ body, and obviously wasn't shy about putting it on display. He was still one of the military's curs, he was the fucking commander of this pack of curs, it was a given that he had some sinister motive in mind. The way he'd been teasing Ed all evening—leaning in closer than necessary, brushing against him, all the double entendres, giving him that _damn view_ —made it pretty clear which way he leaned.

And yet, he hadn't _done_ anything. Not even a grope. Ed felt like he'd been on tenterhooks all evening, but in the end, all the man had done was secure his chain to the wall by the cot, and then . . . head for the bed. He'd even bade him sleep well.

Probably biding his time.

He had other matters to worry about. Under the cover of the blankets, Ed wriggled his fingertips beneath the collar—he hated to think of is as "his" collar. The skin of his neck was still irritated and swollen, but he'd been anxious all evening to inspect the inner surface.

Perfectly smooth. Like it was covered in chrome.

"Fuck," he hissed, then froze. He waited, but the only sound was a stack of papers being tapped together, and then the small lamp on the other side of the room clicked off. The teen let out his breath, and eased his fingers free.

With the array hidden beneath the outer layer there was no way for him to map it, and no way to figure out how to counter it. He scowled. All right, so the military had a few clever people, obviously.

He'd heard the rumors, of course. The collars were primarily used to control rogue alchemists, and would disrupt any alchemy used by the wearer or used on the collar. He just hadn't figured the military was clever enough to actually come up with something like that and had written it off as scare tactics. Sure, the government was trying to control the use of alchemy so badly they were willing to choke the life out of it, but that didn't mean they _could_.

And then he'd tried to transmute the chain from the wall. The energy had snapped back and shattered, like a thousand knife blades shooting up his arm and through his chest. After he'd managed to pick himself up from the floor, he'd been surprised to find he was still in one piece. But it hadn't been an ordinary rebound; something had snared his transmutation and redirected it.

Ed pulled the blankets off his face, suddenly finding them too confining, and glared up at where the chain was latched to the wall, the metal picking up the weak light that filtered in through the window. His cot was right outside the bathroom, and he had enough lead that he could . . . _take care_ of things if he needed to, but he wouldn't be able to do much else. Like get close enough to do any mischief to the man in the bed on the other side of the room, for instance. Smart.

He shifted and tried tucking the chain under the pillow, then immediately yanked it back out when it put pressure on the collar. It looked like he was just going to have to put up with rolling over onto the damn thing. He smoothed it out so it ran parallel to the pillow instead, running his fingers over the links. For what it did, the chain was actually pretty delicate, but that didn't make it any less obnoxious. It was humiliating, being leashed like some disobedient dog, even more humiliating than having his arm taken away. If this was the way the military treated people it was no wonder so many hated them. When he got out of this. . . .

Ed scowled, tucking the blankets around his shoulders. He wasn't quite sure _what_ he would do. But somehow he would pay them back for this—for what they were doing to the people of Liore in general. And for what happened to Rosé—if Ed ever found _that_ son of a bitch he was going to give him a very _special_ payback.

But first—first he needed to find a way to free himself.

  



	3. Chapter 2: Expectations of Reality

Ed surveyed the room with growing dismay. He'd been too distracted the day before to notice the state it was in. " _When_ did you say you last cleaned in here?"

Mustang waved the remark away, looking over the room with apparent detachment. "I've been busy."

Ed scowled. That seemed like an awfully handy excuse.

"But now you're here, so it doesn't matter." He sounded entirely too pleased. Ed flinched away from a touch on his hair, but the colonel continued undaunted, carefully extracting some strands that had gotten tangled in the chain. "I've sent for cleaning supplies. In the mean time, you can . . . neaten up."

He jerked his hair away and moved a half-step to the side. "Why the hell should I have to—fuck." He cut himself off mid-rant when he realized the answer was obvious. "You're a fucking _slob_ ," he said instead.

Mustang looked down his nose at him and Ed had to bite back a smug grin. The man was usually so impervious, it was nice to see a jibe could hit home after all. "The responsibilities of a field commander hardly leave time for things such as housework."

"Meaning you're a slob."

Mustang stared down at him for a moment more, then smirked, an expression the teen was really starting to hate. "Then it's good that I have you now, isn't it?" He closed the small distance between them and leaned in. Ed turned away but held his ground, refusing to be intimidated. They were close enough that he could smell the coffee on the other man's breath. "If you're a good boy and do your job well, you might get a _reward_."

Ed's fist shook at his side with the urge to punch that smug expression right off his too-pretty face. Only the weight of the collar around his neck made him think twice. He snarled. "I don't want any fucking 'reward' from _you_."

"No?" The soldier straightened, and hooked the chain with a finger, sliding it over the young man's shoulder and letting it slither down his chest. "I would have thought you might want some time without having to worry about this thing snagging in that pretty hair of yours. But in that case—"

Ed smacked the hand away. "I'm not some _girl_."

"No. You're _definitely_ not."

Ed choked on whatever he'd been about to say next. Had the man just . . . _purred_ at him? He quickly turned away under the pretense of kicking at a pile of shirts, hoping the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks wasn't too noticeable. "Fine, whatever, I'll clean it. It's not like I have a choice."

"Mm. I suppose not."

The neutral tone gave him no clue how to respond, so Ed waited, watching out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, Mustang turned and headed for the door, his military boots tapping out a sharp rhythm against the stone floor. "I'll tell the cook to send some lunch around noon."

With that, the colonel left, leaving him alone. In a room that really did need a fair amount of cleaning, now that he was looking.

Ed fingered the padlock that was welded onto the end of the chain. If he had his automail, he could've broken it. Maybe. On the other hand, if the military went to all the trouble of creating a disruption array, it probably figured out some way to make the physical part of the restraints tougher as well. He pressed a finger against the keyhole and tried to figure out something he could use to pick the lock. Utensils? Far too big. Needle or pin? He wasn't sure where he could get one. Tooth of a comb? What he needed was a piece of wire or something.

"Fuck." Ed dropped his hand. Who was he kidding? He'd always used alchemy to get past locks, he had no idea how to pick one. He remembered Winry bragging about how she'd taught herself, but he'd never had any interest.

He winced and cupped his hand over his empty port. Thinking about his mechanic made him realize—she would most likely come after him with her wrench for letting someone take his arm. No, she definitely would. Not that he'd really had a choice, but that wouldn't matter to her. And when she figured out the clumsy way it had been detached—"I'm fucking _dead_."

The door rattled and Ed jumped, whirling around and falling into a defensive crouch.

"Take it easy, kid," the soldier mumbled around a cigarette as he shouldered the door open and swung a mop, broom, and bucket over the threshold, dumping them just inside. "Here y'go." The man straightened and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. "Colonel says to be sure to get the bathroom."

Ed wrinkled his nose, but edged over to get a look in the bucket, holding his hair out of his face. Scrub brush, toilet brush, some rags, and a couple bottles of some kind of cleaning solution. "Fuck. Fine." He shook his head. "Bastard better not've left anything nasty in there."

It wasn't until the soldier chuckled that Ed realized that might not have been the best thing to say. But all he did was take a drag on his cigarette, and remark, "Well, all men shit, as they say. The rest is none of my business."

"Uh. Yeah." He shoved his hair back again and peered at the man. People in uniform all tended to run together, but the tall man with scruffy blond hair looked a bit familiar.

The soldier gestured to the young man's hair with the cigarette. "Won't that get in the way? I thought you had your hair was pulled back."

Ed waved his arm. "I can hardly braid it with only one hand!" he snapped. "And those assholes took my hair tie."

"Right, right, that would make it hard." He stuck the cigarette between his lips and started searching his pockets. "Y'know, you're pretty scary with that blade-arm. Especially for a little guy."

" _Who are you calling so microscopic he couldn't strike fear in—_ " His arm caught the chain and jerked the collar, and Ed's rant choked and died in his throat. He yanked his arm free and stepped back, mentally cursing himself. Normally he didn't care who he pissed off, but normally he wasn't chained and crippled.

The blond soldier had jumped back, startled, and was now blinking at him, and it might have been comical except that one hand had dropped to his gun. Ed grit his teeth and swallowed his pride enough to turn away, trying to indicate that he wasn't a threat. He remembered him now as the guy with the rifle from the day before, the one he'd disarmed just before he'd been captured.

The man took a long drag on the cigarette and shook his head, scratching his fingers through his hair. "You're something else. How'd a kid like you end up in this?"

"You're fighting civilians, not an enlisted army," he muttered.

"Yeah, but you. . . ." He waved a hand, then finally finished with, "You're not a local."

"So?"

He sighed. "Never mind. Come over here and I'll do something about your hair."

Ed glanced up in surprise, but after a moment stepped over and turned his back. He wondered if it wasn't some sort of trick, but all the soldier did was gather his hair into a crude ponytail and tie it off with a piece of string.

"That'll do it. Might not look like much, but it should keep it out of your way."

"Um. Thanks."

"No problem." He grinned, waving the cigarette toward the room. "Don't let the colonel give you too hard a time, you hear?"

After the soldier left, Ed frowned at the cleaning supplies, absently rubbing at the skin beneath the collar. What the hell had that been about? He breaks the guy's gun yesterday so today he's being all nice? Since when was the military _nice_? All right, so not everyone in the military was exactly the same, but it was still weird. The jerkasses who took his arm were more like what he expected.

He pressed his hand against his bruised ribs, but his mind was not on the POW guards. Instead, he was remembering fingers brushing over his side, pressing just hard enough to test for cracked ribs but not enough to hurt badly. For a bastard, he had been kinda considerate.

Ed sneered and snatched up the broom. He'd needed to figure out how hard he could work his new slave, that's all. And all this niceness was just to get him to drop his guard, it had to be.

He wasn't going to fall for it.

* * *

Roy walked slowly along the line of assembled guards, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "I would hope," he began, "that I don't have to remind you that these are Amestrian citizens." He scanned their faces, gauging reactions. "I would hope that I don't have to remind you that these are your fellow countrymen. I would hope," he turned at the end of the line, "that I don't have to explain that they will _remember_ how they are treated. That the way they are treated _today_ ," he paused to stare down one particular guard, "will shape how they view the government. And I _hope_ ," he stepped back to address the guards as a whole, "that I don't have to explain that the _quickest way_ to bring about another, potentially _worse_ situation—is to treat them _poorly_!"

The guards stood at attention, glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for a direct question or a command, anything that meant they could answer _yes sir_ or _no sir_ and be on their way. Roy would let them wait a while longer. His surprise inspection of the POW camp hadn't turned up any overt cruelty, but the devil was ever in the details. Chains that were kept too short. Food and water rations that were just so much smaller than regulation. Too many prisoners with abrasions on their necks. Prisoners who were obviously not being allowed to bathe adequately—and evidence that some had not been allowed a proper place to relieve themselves. At a cursory glance the camp looked fine, but the deeper truth was appalling.

The colonel had no doubt that this had been acceptable, even encouraged under General Hakuro. Most of the men and women here were legacy from then. Roy had thought—hoped—that the way he had emphasized regulation and keeping everything up to code when he had arrived would have told them that his expectations were different.

"There will be daily inspections until conditions here are satisfactory," he informed them, his voice calm and low. "And then weekly inspections, to make sure they stay that way. Tomorrow one of my staff will deliver a clear list of regulations. _Anyone_ ," he let his eyes travel over the line of guards, "who does not adhere to those regulations . . . will be disciplined. Are we clear?"

After the chorus of _yes sir_ he dismissed them back to their duties.

Hawkeye stepped up beside him as the guards hastened out of the room. "You won't win yourself any favor like that," she murmured. "Not with them, or the Brass."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not looking to." He suppressed a sigh. Normally that sort of thing was one of his highest priorities, but here there were much more pressing matters. "Parliament didn't press for my transfer here because of my popularity with the generals."

"Just don't give the generals anything more to complain about."

He gave her a tight smile.

Just then the door swung open to admit an infantryman, flushed from exertion. "Sir," he panted. "The supply trucks—there's a problem, sir."

* * *

With all the confusion of people running this way and that, it took Roy a moment to figure out why the trucks looked so odd. All four tires of both trucks were flat, and the air was filled with the acrid stench of burnt rubber, but it was more than that. The tires all seemed to have sunk into ground by an inch or more.

Most of the soldiers scurried out of the way when they saw him approaching, giving him a clear view of the jagged potholes that had spontaneously grown beneath the vehicles. From the smoke and fumes still lingering around each one he guessed that the tires had been ruined by flares, but that left even more questions.

Havoc was standing behind one of the trucks, scratching the back of his head. "How the hell did they do that?"

"False bottom." Breda pried at the edge of one of the potholes with the tip of his pocketknife and a jagged piece popped up. "Or a false top, in this case. We're not heavy enough to break through it, but when the trucks stopped—" He turned the knife point down and jabbed it into the ground a few feet to the side of the truck. It met with resistance initially, then dropped like it had hit empty space. "I bet this whole courtyard is like this."

"Okay, but— _how_?"

Roy knelt and picked up the piece the lieutenant had pried off, rubbing away the dirt and sand. "How indeed," he muttered.

He closed his hand around the fragment and stood. "Who's in charge of supplies here?"

A harried-looking captain stepped forward. "Sir."

"The supply trucks have a regular schedule, is that right?"

"More or less, Sir."

"And do they always stop in this courtyard?"

The man sighed. He had clearly gone along this same train of thought. "Yes, Sir. It's—it _was_ —convenient."

"Seems it's lost some of that convenience. Inform Central Command of this . . . _mishap_ , if you haven't already, and then I would like an inventory of our current supplies. Lieutenant." He turned to Hawkeye. "How many contract alchemists do we have on hand?"

"Two, Sir."

"Have them go over this courtyard and clear any booby-traps. _Carefully_."

"Sir, if I may?" One of the drivers interrupted. "I don't think Central will be too eager to replace these trucks. Unless you have some extra tires. . . ."

The colonel raised an eyebrow at the supply master, who shook his head. "Very well. Be sure to mention this in your report to command." He started to turn away, then stopped. "Lieutenant, on second thought, have the contractors meet me in my office first. And send lunch."

Standard procedure was to use civilian alchemists for anything menial—anything considered "beneath" a state alchemist—but Roy was uneasy having them near a battlefield. They weren't soldiers, they were merely civilians who wanted to practice alchemy, and if it weren't for the law that required all alchemy be monitored by the state he doubted most of them would be anywhere near the military. He'd sent most of the contractors back to Central after he'd been transfered here, but Command had required that he keep a few. They would probably be glad for something to do besides repair work. But because he used them so little Roy had no idea what the breadth and depth of their skills were.

First, however, he wanted to check on his new roommate.

He'd tried to make sure everything in the room was benign, but that kid seemed like the crafty type and he didn't know what to expect. He also wanted to make sure he'd been fed properly this time.

When he opened the door he was greeted by a cry of "apples on the left, dammit!" and then silence, punctuated by a quiet snore. Roy blinked at the figure sprawled out on the cot, then turned to shut the door, chuckling to himself.

A quick scan showed a crumb-covered food tray on the table, and a room that _had_ been cleaned, though sloppily. The corners could use better attention and the window was streaked, and he hesitated to look beneath the bed, but the effort had been made. A glance into the bathroom showed a streaked but wiped sink and a bathtub that had been scrubbed if not quite scrubbed clean.

Roy started to step back out, but then stopped and did a double-take at the mirror. Drawn in soap was a caricature of what could only be the kid himself, judging by the twig of hair, scowling and sticking out its tongue. The little show of juvenile anger made him smile. Strictly speaking, he knew he should discourage such behavior, but it was harmless enough on its own. If anyone challenged his decision, he could justify it: anything that let a prisoner relax, even a little, increased the likelihood of that prisoner opening up. There was no reason to elaborate on his true motivations, not to the higher-ups.

The colonel looked down at his hostage, sleeping splayed out in the midday heat with his metal leg dangling off the side of the cot. Like this, he looked like nothing more than an ordinary teenage boy. One who had no business getting tangled up in a war.

He reached down and brushed some hair out of the young man's face. The kid snorted and rolled onto his side, wiping drool onto the pillow, but slept on. "Everyone has secrets," Roy muttered. "But are yours really worth a collar and chain?"

* * *

Havoc craned his neck to see around the trucks, hoping to catch a glimpse of the contract alchemists—or rather, the cute one. Chick like that shouldn't be in a war zone, Havoc figured it was only gentlemanly to look out for her. And if that meant talking with her a little bit more, he was willing to do that.

"Oi." Breda elbowed him in the back and he stumbled against the truck hatch. "Would you get your mind back on the supplies? I'd like to be done before supper."

"That _would_ be your motivation," Havoc grumbled as he slid one of the boxes to the edge and hefted it.

"Better than being motivated by long legs and tits," Breda shot back as he disappeared into the warehouse.

"Watch your mouth!" Havoc called after him. He paused inside the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the relative dim of the warehouse. "This isn't some dockside hooker—she's a classy lady!"

"Nah, she ain't." Breda grunted as he shoved his load onto a shelf. "She just wants us to think she is."

"Who, the contract alchemist?" Fuery looked up from his clipboard tally sheet.

"Of course the contract alchemist," Breda jumped in before Havoc could answer. "Who else has Havoc been mooning over lately?"

"I'm not—" he paused to hoist the box onto a shelf, "— _mooning_. Over anyone."

Fuery grinned at him. "Just 'being friendly'?"

Havoc glared at his friends while they snickered. "All right you two, stop trying to make this into something _immoral_. She's a civilian and it's dangerous here, that's all—"

"Sure, sure, Hav." Breda waved him off with a laugh as he went back out to the trucks.

"If Lyra had her way, she'd be a state alchemist already," Fuery pointed out as he moved to another row and continued his tally. "She told me she's hoping to take the test later this year—huh."

Havoc sniffed. "Well, until then she's a civilian—what?"

The sergeant glanced over, then pointed his pen at the far back corner of the room. "This was a store of some kind before the military commandeered it, right?"

"Yeah, a general store. Why?"

"Well, normally I'd chalk any extra items up to leftover stock, but—"

Havoc joined him and peered into the shadowy corner. "What the hell?"

Fuery shook his head as he flipped through his supply lists. "It's definitely not ours, but—why would a general store have a suit of armor?"

"Was that always there?"


	4. Chapter 3: Questions Upon Questions

Roy pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered if he could get away with melting the phone cord. "My my, word travels fast."

" _To me, it does_ ," Hughes amended. " _The Brass aren't likely to hear about it until they get your weekly report_."

"And—?"

" _And they'll be glad you're taking your duties seriously, but your particular choice is going to raise a few eyebrows_."

"Everything I do here raises eyebrows," he shot back.

" _Sure, but a_ boy? _There's enough rumors about you already, Roy, you don't need to help them along_."

"Rumors I've used to my advantage."

" _So far_."

He sighed in exasperation. "He's a _hostage_. The point is to gather information on the enemy."

" _That's what it says on paper_."

Roy sighed again and rubbed his eyes. Of course he'd known what most people would assume, but that didn't make it any less aggravating.

A beat later, Hughes added, " _All right, what are you protecting him from_."

He dropped his forehead to his hand and smiled ruefully. "Himself, mostly. He can't have been in custody more than a half-hour before he pissed off the guards."

" _And you think they'd take it out on a kid_?"

"They already were. That's the kind of thing Hakuro encouraged. But he's not a child, he's at least fifteen or sixteen."

" _That old? The word I got was that he's just a little guy_."

Roy chuckled. "He is, but only in size, not age, and he's tough. According to reports, he took down at least three soldiers before they managed to subdue and capture him."

" _Are you sure you want someone that dangerous in your quarters? I know you're not a fan of the collars, Roy, but I hope you're keeping one on him_."

" _Yes_ , and the chain. I'm not stupid." He rubbed his forehead. "But he's not some killer. He took those soldiers down by disarming them and trying to pin them with debris. None of them were seriously injured, but it wasn't for lack of opportunity."

" _Hmm, I'm thinking that had something to do with his capture_."

"Most likely. I watched him try to escape when they were processing him, and he would've gotten a lot farther if he'd been willing to kill."

" _Still, it wouldn't do to drop your guard_."

He scowled. "I'm not an idiot, Hughes. This kid isn't a killer, but he's far from harmless. But he's not stupid, either; I doubt he'd try anything when he's at such a disadvantage."

" _Can you count on that_?"

He scoffed, leaning back in the chair and staring at the ceiling. "Of course not. But he's hampered by more than just the collar and chain—he's missing his right arm. The automail had a blade attached, so it had to be confiscated. If he starts giving me trouble I could confiscate his leg as well. I'd hate to do it, but missing both an arm and a leg would severely limit his options."

" _Two automail limbs, at his age_?" Hughes _tsk_ ed. " _Poor kid. I wonder what happened_?"

Roy snorted. His friend's fatherly impulses were never far away. "Maybe I'll ask him while I'm working on him for information. That _is_ supposed to be the point of this, isn't it?"

Hughes chuckled. " _You're probably the first field commander in years who's kept that in mind. But Roy_ —" his voice turned serious, "— _watch yourself. You're a great tactician, but you leave yourself vulnerable in more ways than you think_."

* * *

Havoc eyed the suit of armor as he shoved the last box onto the shelf. It had been set on the floor behind a crate, sitting knees to chest like a child playing hide-and-seek. "I swear that thing is watching me."

Breda groaned, digging his knuckles into his lower back. "You've been out in the sun too long."

"Oh come _on_ ," Havoc grumbled. "You've got to admit that thing is creepy." He edged up to it as if it would jump out at him. He felt ridiculous, but couldn't shake the feeling that this thing was more than a pile of metal.

"I'm more worried about who left it there," Breda pointed out. "And why."

The blond soldier prodded it with the toe of his boot as the other man ambled up beside him. "You think it's rigged to explode?"

"I doubt it. If you want to plant explosives, you don't put them in something that shouts 'look at me'." Breda lifted the helm and turned it over in his hands. "Same with surveillance. This thing stands out too much."

Havoc peered into the neck opening, fumbling in his pockets for a flashlight. "So if it's not a booby-trap and it's not wired—why is it here?"

"Got me." He frowned, poking at the absurd spike in the middle of the helm. "It looks like a decorative piece, but it's all beaten up like someone's been using it."

"Who could wear this thing? It's huge." He shone the flashlight around the chest cavity, then shook the armor, listening carefully. "Seems empty."

"We should probably take it apart to be sure."

"You hear that?"

"What?"

Havoc gave the armor a sharp shake, then held it still, listening. After a moment he threw his weight against it, shifting it away from the wall so he could look behind. "I thought I heard . . . I dunno, like a gasp or something."

"The wind?"

"Sounded like a little kid."

Breda rapped the helm against one leg of the armor and then the other, listening to the hollow ring. "You sure it was from this thing?"

"Sure sounded like it." Havoc straightened and rubbed the back of his neck. "This is going to sound crazy, but what if this is . . . you know . . . that 'ghost' we keep hearing rumors about."

Breda snorted. "The 'haunted statue'?"

"A suit of armor looks like a statue."

"That's nothing but the locals trying to use scare tactics. Someone in a costume."

"Or armor?"

"Sure, maybe, except that this thing is _empty_."

"Well, if it was a ghost. . . ."

"Is that your official opinion, Lieutenant Havoc?"

Both men turned and saluted as their commander entered the store room, trailed by Fuery. "Uh, no, Sir," Havoc clarified. "It was just a . . . we're a little stumped."

"I can see that." The slight smirk softened the dry statement as Mustang took the helm from Breda. "And you're sure this is a new addition to our stores? Not something left over from before?"

Fuery shrugged. "I can't guarantee the accuracy of the old logs, but no one I've spoken to remembers it being here. The supply master is still on the line to Central but he gave me an odd look when I asked."

"It seems like an awfully large item to have fallen through the cracks."

Breda nodded. "That was our thought. But it's pretty large for someone to have just moved it here over night, too."

The colonel raised an eyebrow at Havoc. "Unless it moved itself?"

The taller man groaned. "It's not _my_ theory. Everyone talks about those rumors—"

Mustang shook his head with a good-natured smile. "I'm aware of them. But until I see some proof of these 'hauntings', we frankly have more important things to worry about."

"Understood sir."

Mustang set the helm on a nearby crate and frowned at the armor. "Did you find anything suspicious or dangerous?"

Breda shrugged. "You mean other than a huge suit of armor appearing out of nowhere? No. It's empty, and I can't see anything attached to it."

"Mm. It's quite an elaborate set-up for a distraction, if it is that." He sighed. "I need to increase the patrols in this area anyway. Let's make sure they know to be on the look-out for—" he shot Havoc a look, "—anything that moves."

The lieutenant grimaced, fiddling with an unlit cigarette. "Can we go grab dinner now, Sir?"

Mustang waved them off and they hastened to the exit. "Tell the cook to send mine to my quarters."

"Oh?" Breda paused in the doorway to grin back at their commander. "Two plates, or will you be sharing?"

Havoc couldn't see the look Mustang gave him, but given the way Breda scrambled out of the store room he could guess.

* * *

Ed leaned back to peek into the main room. Mustang was busy chatting with a courier who'd dropped off some papers. He made a face and amended that thought: more like flirting. Maybe that was how he kept his command happy. The young man scowled and turned back to the sink, grabbing the neck of his tunic and hauling it over his head. He wanted to get himself cleaned up while the bastard was distracted. He'd already had to sit through eating dinner with that guy and had had about enough awkward conversation as he could stomach. Mustang, of course, hadn't seemed the least bit uncomfortable.

Ed squeezed the wet rag out against the edge of the sink, then scrubbed it over his face and, more gingerly, over his neck. At least Mustang had been true to his word and unlocked the chain. The collar was still an annoyance, but it was nice not to have that constant pull on his neck.

A sudden stinging made him hiss and he snatched the rag away, frowning at the bright red stain that was seeping through the fabric. He must have rubbed off the scab on his neck.

Ed twisted his head around to try to get a good look at it in the mirror, and finally sighed, dropping the rag into the sink and swishing it around in the water. At least it seemed to be no more than oozing. It was probably safer to let it bleed out rather than rub whatever was on the rag into the open wound. "Fucking guards," he muttered as he squeezed the rag out.

Reaching around, he gingerly daubed the rag at the open port. Automail was designed to withstand the elements, but fine grit in the wrong area could cause connection problems and having the socket exposed in a place like this was asking for trouble. " _Fucking_ guards," he hissed again, twisting the rag to try to get at the crevices.

"Care for some help?"

" _Gah_!" Ed whipped around and jumped back, striking his hip against the corner of the sink and stumbling against the wall.

Mustang smirked over at him, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded. "I was going to offer to wash your back, but if you'd rather use the wall. . . ."

"I don't need help from you!" Ed wasn't normally self-conscious, but the way the other man's eyes were traveling over his body was making him feel very exposed. Mustang reached over and he flinched away from the hand, but all the soldier did was brush his hair away from the side of his neck. The older man shook his head with a sympathetic wince, before turning to the shelf to open the first aid box.

"It's _fine_." Ed swiped his hand over the bloody line and edged away along the wall. "It's not bleeding that bad."

"There's no point in risking an infection."

Mustang stepped toward him just as he bumped into the toilet, and he shot a frantic glance around the small room to try and find _some_ way to slip past. The taller man approached him with his hands raised and a disarming smile on his face as if Ed was some cornered animal—which he very much felt like. The thought made him scowl.

"Come now, there's no need for that." Mustang cupped his chin, and Ed resisted having his head turned. Surprisingly, the other man didn't try to force him, just stroked his tense jaw while he tucked the loose hair out of the way. "This may sting a bit," he murmured, before gently pressing a wad of cotton against his neck.

The astringent did sting, but the young man clenched his teeth and refused to so much as hiss. He wasn't going to play into this man's game—whatever it was. He glared up at him and cursed himself for the blush he knew was staining his cheeks. Mustang was smirking down at him but Ed couldn't tell if he was simply amused or if he was enjoying his hostage's distress.

After carefully wiping the blood away from the raw wound, Mustang took a small gauze pad from the first aid kit, smoothing it down beneath the collar and taping it into place. It was all done very matter-of-fact, as if a field commander taking the time to patch up a prisoner of war was common-place.

"There we are now," he said as he stepped back and tossed the used cotton into the trash bin. "That should give it some time to heal properly."

Ed poked at the bandage and eyed the man warily. "Uh. Yeah."

"Now are you sure you wouldn't like some assistance?"

"Yeah. M'fine."

"Very well, then." With a dismissive gesture, Mustang turned and headed back into the room. "I'll be wanting a bath in about forty minutes or so, but I won't need you until then."

Ed grunted his acknowledgement. He waited until he heard the colonel sit down at the table before peeling himself away from the wall and retrieving the rag from the other side of the room.

What was this man's game? He had to have a game, he was too conniving to not have a game. What was he angling for? Ed turned the thought over and over in his mind as he scrubbed himself.

Things had been brutal under the last commander. The army's policy seemed to be shoot first, ask questions later. No one was sure of the numbers, but everyone in Liore had lost loved ones and there was speculation that what the army wanted was to wipe out the town entirely. The commander had treated the prisoners like dirt—when he'd bothered taking them into custody—and what he'd done to his hostage made Ed's blood boil.

But then he'd been transferred out—along with the soldiers directly under him—and this Colonel Mustang had been transferred in. Overnight the body count all but halted. The number of prisoners rose but only because the soldiers had stopped killing the town folk out of hand. Skirmishes were broken up and insurgents were subdued but mostly without anyone dying. Their fight here stopped being a desperate bid for survival and started being more about irritating the army into leaving. Ed had felt like he'd been able to breathe for the first time in months.

Then he'd gotten snagged as a hostage and found himself holding his breath in an entirely different way.

Ed spared a glance into the main room before starting in on the irritating task of wrestling the tunic over his head one-handed. In the past when he'd been without his arm Al or Winry had been around to help him. As much as he hated accepting help, he was missing it now.

Mustang would probably be more than happy to help.

Ed cringed and rubbed his hand over his burning cheeks.

The colonel came off like a playboy, but he wouldn't have risen as far as he had in the military if he was harmless. The name of the Flame Alchemist was known even in remote parts of the country like this. Ishval hadn't been that long ago and stories still circulated about entire streets going up in flames.

Ed had seen those flames for himself when Mustang had arrived. A small group had decided to take advantage of the confusion of the personnel transfer, and Ed and Al had come along to see if they could sabotage the trucks. As soon as the first of the guerrilla fighters had made a move a wall of fire had shot across the courtyard, cutting off their advance and frightening the townsfolk into fleeing. Ed had ducked behind a crumbling wall, feeling more awe and fascination than fear. When the flames had died down, he'd been rewarded with his first look at the infamous state alchemist. The man with the bright red array stitched on his white gloves had looked . . . young. Ed had been expecting some sort of hard-faced killer, but this Mustang looked like he'd be more at home in Central's nightlife than on the battlefield.

Still, the youth reminded himself as he stepped into the bedroom, looks could be deceiving. No matter how nice Mustang looked or how kind he acted, he was still military, and Ed couldn't let his guard drop for an instant.

Mustang was flipping through the papers that had been delivered earlier. Ed inched over, hoping to get a glimpse of what had him so absorbed. As long as he was stuck here, he might as well take advantage of it.

"How long have you been here?"

Ed jumped back, his hand flying up defensively. "Wh-what? I wasn't—I mean—"

The colonel glanced up with a smirk. "How long have you been in Liore, I mean."

"O-oh. Uh. . . ." He shoved his hair away from his face and shrugged. "I dunno . . . half a year? At least?" The days tended to run together, but it had been long enough for Rosé to have her baby.

"Then this isn't anything you wouldn't know." He waved a hand over the papers spread out over the table. "These are statistics from the start of the conflict until now."

"Statistics?"

"Mm. Numbers."

Ed huffed. "I _know_ what statistics are, you bastard."

"Aren't you the smart one."

There was that purr again. Ed scowled and feigned interest in the window while he waited for his cheeks to cool down.

Mustang leaned back in his chair and held his arm out. "All right then, smart one. Tell me what you make of these statistics."

Ed eyed the man as he sidled toward the table, accepting the invitation but doing his best to avoid the arm. "What'm _I_ gonna be able to tell you that you don't already know?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't be asking, now would I?"

Ed grunted, but turned his attention to the papers.

Some of the notations were unfamiliar, but the major components were pretty clear. The number of "engagements," casualties, prisoners—he flicked the edge of a page that showed a big jump in the worst numbers. "This is when that sonova—that guy who was here before you—got transferred in, isn't it? General Hack-row, or something."

"General Hakuro, and yes." Mustang's tone was carefully mild. "That's within days of his transfer."

"He really fucked things up." Ed quickly pointed to the oldest records to defend his words. "I mean, look—this whole week had only ten casualties, and no fatalities, and then _bam_ —" He struck his palm against the incriminating form. " _He_ shows up and suddenly it's ten, twenty a day. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put _that_ sonovabitch here? Why?"

"The Fuhrer keeps his own council on such things. I'm sure he had his reasons."

"Okay then—if the Fuhrer thinks he's such a great commander, why suddenly transfer _him_ out and _you_ in?"

"I can hardly read the mind of Parliament, either." Mustang gestured to the papers. "But there's more here than casualties."

Ed narrowed his eyes, giving the soldier a long stare before turning back to the records.

"Do you know what started this conflict?"

"Yeah." _Us_.

"Do you know what's kept it going?"

Ed shrugged. There was idiocy on both sides of this. He didn't see that it mattered anymore, he just wished it would end.

As he scanned across the records, a few more notations started to make sense. He found an uptick in property damage that signaled when he and Al had returned, and the sudden jump in military deaths that indicated Scar's arrival—that number dropped as quickly as it had risen when the Ishvalan had decided to pursue other tactics, no doubt the military was still trying to make sense of that. Ed also found the dip in civilian casualties and the rise in prisoners from Mustang's arrival. He shrugged again. "What'm I looking for?"

Mustang stood and stepped in beside him, and Ed twitched as a hand came to rest on his back. "You could see the point when General Hakuro arrived. Take another look at the days preceding and following it."

The warm, gentle presence just below his shoulder blades was an incredible distraction, and Ed glared down at the papers, willing the figures to make sense. "The numbers are lower. Like I said. They . . . they were actually going down. Things were under control, why did they transfer—?"

"That is the question, isn't it. But the military can't take full blame for the continued conflict. These also note which side was responsible for each engagement, when it was clear."

"Isn't the military just going to mark that down in a way that makes themselves look good?" Ed muttered.

Mustang's thumb rubbed his back. "There may be some small bias. But the information is interesting nonetheless."

Ed hunched his shoulders. It felt kinda nice, but . . . he didn't want anything from this man to feel _nice_.

A fair number of the "engagements" had been started by the townsfolk, but that was hardly surprising. They wanted the military gone. But those numbers didn't seem to be related to Hakuro's arrival, and now that he was looking Ed could see several incidents that hadn't directly involved the soldiers at all. Something—or someone—seemed to be stirring the citizens up.

"Cornello," Ed growled under his breath. No one had seen the charlatan for several months but they could feel his influence even now. His ravings had split the town into believers and non-believers but it hadn't turned deadly until the military butted in—but it seemed his words kept making a bad situation worse and worse.

"Mm. Is that the priest's name?"

Ed jumped. Red-faced, he scowled and turned away, cursing himself for the slip-up.

Mustang's hand stroked down his back. "Take it easy, you haven't given away any vital secrets." Ed could _hear_ the smirk. "We've known of the priest and his supposed 'miracles' for some time. Word of that kind tends to travel."

"No shit," the young man muttered. It had brought _them_ here, after all.

"Given the nature of his claims some theorized that he had the fabled philosopher's stone," the colonel continued. "My superior was already on the verge of sending someone to investigate when we got word of the unrest."

"Yeah, well, he didn't," Ed spat. "Have a Stone, I mean. It was bogus."

"Is that so?" Mustang was rubbing his back now, gentle strokes up and down his spine. "That's hardly surprising. Most such claims are."

Just when Ed was starting to wonder if all this touching was leading up to something he really didn't want to think about, the hand stopped. Mustang patted his hostage on the shoulder, once, before moving to gather up the papers.

"Every conflict has at least two sides," the soldier mused, "but the particulars are not always what they first appear to be. But enough of that for tonight." He favored Ed with a knowing smile. "I think I would like my bath."


	5. Chapter 4: A Delicate Game

The kid was being surly this morning. Roy teased him about waking up on the wrong side of the cot and got snarled at. For once, he took pity and didn't press; Ed's mood was probably mostly to blame on being led around on a chain, which was understandable. The colonel wasn't fond of it either, but there wasn't much else he could do if he was going to take his hostage out of his quarters.

"You're fucking _loaning me out_ ," Ed growled, not for the first time.

"You would be bored all day in my quarters," Roy explained. "And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

The boy spat curses and Roy turned to secure the chain to the wall, hiding a sympathetic smile. "If you behave for Cook today then we might discuss it," he added. "But right now I'm afraid I must see to my duties."

" _Bastard_."

"So be a good boy."

Roy patted his shoulder and snatched his hand back before Ed could swat it. He left the kid to growl expletives at his back as he joined the cook in the kitchen.

Cook looked up from his cutting board and nodded to the store room. "I haven't taken on more than I bargained for, have I?"

The colonel smirked. "He's a good kid under the bravado," he insisted, pitching his voice so it wouldn't carry. "He just likes to hide behind anger. Feed him and I'm sure he'll come around."

The round man chuckled, wiping his hands on his apron. " _That_ I can do."

Roy left the cook to rummage around in his stores, no doubt looking for some choice treat that had been set aside. He did have some misgivings about leaving his hostage like this, but he was afraid of what mischief Ed might get into if he was bored. He was far too intelligent and seemed like the kind to go stir-crazy. Cook was a good man, and Roy had made sure there wasn't anything terribly dangerous in that store room. Just pots—lots of pots that needed scrubbing.

He nodded to Lieutenant Hawkeye as he left he kitchen. "Sorry for the wait. What was it you wanted to show me?"

The look she gave him was flavored by more than a bit of tolerant amusement. She had no doubt witnessed his exchange with the young prisoner. "This way, Sir," was all she said. "I was cataloging the recently confiscated items when something caught my eye."

"Oh?"

She shook her head as they made their way to the secure storage room. "You should see for yourself."

The colonel effected a put-upon sigh. "Very well. But you know this cuts into the little time I have to do paperwork."

"I suppose you'll have to make up the time on your lunch break," she said, her tone deceptively mild. "They _have_ been going a bit over-long."

Roy pulled a face but wisely kept his next thought to himself.

Hawkeye unlocked the small storage room and then carefully locked the door behind them. Roy had been disgusted to learn that confiscated items had had a way of "disappearing" under Hakuro and had quickly put some knew procedures into place. Any item confiscated from a prisoner was kept in this one room, and only a select few had access. The change that had gone over less than well with the incumbent soldiers, but that was to be expected.

"Here, Sir." She indicated a bladed metal arm that had been set on the shelf next to a pile of dusty clothes. "I had just gotten to it last night."

Roy picked it up by the wrist and elbow, careful of the sharp edge of the blade. "This is Ed's, isn't it?" With a weapon like that it was a miracle he hadn't skewered any of the guards by accident during his scuffle, never mind design.

"Yes. He's currently the only POW with automail."

The colonel was only half listening. As soon as the forearm plate caught the light he could see exactly why his lieutenant had brought him down here. "Well." He ran his thumb over the edge of the plate. The metal was distorted, with the tell-tale artifacts of a hasty transmutation pointing right at the blade.

"You don't seem surprised."

Roy smirked, turning the arm over in his hands. "Come now. You've known as well as I have that our 'booby-traps' had to have been set up by an alchemist. There was simply never enough evidence left to be certain. Are there any arrays on the arm?"

Hawkeye shook her head. "Not unless they're well hidden. I didn't find any deliberate marks, just scrapes."

"It does seem well used, doesn't it," he mused.

"Do you think Ed could have transmuted that himself?"

He glanced at her. "You mean, could he be a rogue alchemist? I couldn't say. Someone else could easily have transmuted this for him." Ed was certainly smart enough, he was sure of that, but it took more than brains to make an alchemist. He set the arm back on the shelf. "All we know right now is that there _is_ an alchemist. I'll need much more evidence than this before making any accusations. Until then, I see no point in spreading rumor."

"Understood, Sir."

They shared a brief look before turning to leave. Riza Hawkeye was a private person, and Roy might be the only one who knew how she truly felt about the State's strict control of alchemy. They had both seen what it had cost her father to cede to the military in order to study the science he loved, and they both knew the lengths he had gone to to conceal his true research.

"I'll speak with Warrant Officer Falman," Hawkeye said as she closed and locked the door. "There may be details in prior incidences that have been overlooked."

"Mm." The Colonel ran his thumb over the chip of fuzed sand in his pocket, a piece that had been pried up from the courtyard the day before. "There very well may be."

* * *

The armor was still sitting tucked back behind a crate at the end of the last row of shelves. Someone had replaced the helm, but otherwise it looked much like it had the day before. But was it maybe turned just a little to the left? Feeling more than a bit ridiculous, Havoc eyed it, pacing from one side to the other within the confines of the shelves. Reports of commotion around the POW camp last night and sightings of something large moving through the shadows had immediately put him in mind of their mysterious addition to the store room, and he'd half expected the armor to have vanished. The fact that it was still there probably should have put his mind at ease, but something just seemed a bit off.

Havoc took a drag on his cigarette and frowned down at the pile of metal. He supposed someone could have shifted it, but why? And how? The thing had barely budged when he'd shoved at it the day before.

"All right buddy," he muttered. "I know you're hiding something. It's just you and me right now." He picked up the helm and turned it over in his hands. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but there had to be _something_. "You wouldn't get this beat-up from being set in the corner. But how. . . ."

"Are you expecting it to answer back?"

"Ah!"

Havoc jumped and fumbled the helm. It slipped from his hands and bounced off the armor, skittering across the floor until it hit the crate.

Lyra stepped over and delicately knelt down to retrieve it. "Aww, you're going to dent it."

"It's—already dented," Havoc stammered. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and surreptitiously tried to straighten his uniform. "Well—I mean—"

"Mm, it is a little battered, isn't it." One elegant finger traced over the stylized mouth. "Poor thing. Someone must really love this."

"How do you mean?" The lieutenant ran a hand through his hair and squinted at the armor. "It's a mess."

"That's what I mean." She bent over to peer into the neck and Havoc was suddenly presented with a wonderful view of her cleavage. "It's like your favorite teddy bear, you know? No matter how worn it gets, you just can't make yourself throw it away."

"I, uh, I guess." Havoc cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, and found himself now staring at the way her dark skirt stretched tight—

"From the styling I'd say it looks like an antique, but it wouldn't be worth anything to a collector. So someone must have another reason for keeping it."

Lyra edged over, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. Red-faced, Havoc turned away completely, feigning interest in the shelf. "Oh. Yeah. I hadn't thought of it like that."

"Mm-hm. It's well oiled too, did you notice? Especially around the joints. And there's . . . something. . . ."

"What's that?" Curiosity got the better of him, but by the time he turned around Lyra had straightened up.

"Yes, I'd say this is _very_ important to someone," she mused, gazing down at the helm with an odd, knowing smile.

"Okay. But—" Havoc gestured to the store room. "But why put it _here_?"

"Maybe this someone thought this was the best place for it." The alchemist set the helm in place and carefully centered it.

"But—"

Whatever he'd been about to say was lost when Lyra placed her fingers against his chest. "Do keep an eye on it, won't you? I'd hate for something to happen."

"Uh . . . s-sure. If you think it's needed."

"Oh, I do."

* * *

"Fuuuuuck." Ed set down the scouring pad and straightened his back with a groan. Not having a second arm to brace himself as he bent over these damn pots was really starting to tell. He had no idea how long he'd been in here scrubbing away what had once passed for military food, but it had to be getting on to lunch. "Bastard better not leave me here all day," he muttered to the empty room.

Ed wiped his hand on his tunic and picked up the last of the pastries the cook had given him. They'd been a bit stale and nothing like confections from a real bakery, but they were an unexpected treat after months of rationed food. The people of Liore weren't starving—not yet—but with no end to this conflict in sight food was being stretched and no one had the time or energy to do anything more than basic cooking.

The young man frowned to himself as he licked the last of the sticky glaze off his fingers. He wasn't surprised that the military had better rations, but they _were_ still rations. It couldn't be common for the cook to share sweets with a prisoner, even if that prisoner _was_ scrubbing pots for him.

"Hm." Ed swung his leg over the bench and stood. Cook seemed like a pretty decent guy, he'd even chatted a bit before going back to the kitchen. He'd probably be less guarded than a soldier would be—certainly less guarded than that irritating Colonel.

He flicked the chain free of the pile of cookware, holding it out of the way as he edged across the room. He could just get to the door without it pulling on his neck. Ed gave it a sharp yank, mostly out of principal, then turned to look out into the kitchen.

"You can't be in here."

Ed startled, but the cook wasn't talking to him. He was facing the entryway to the mess, where two men in uniform stood, one a solider and the other in the uniform of a POW camp guard. The soldier was sporting a black eye and both looked unsettlingly familiar.

"We're not after your precious food stores." The soldier's eyes settled on Ed and a tight, vicious smile spread across his face. "We just need to take care of a little something."

"Please, you can't be in here. The colonel—" Cook tried to block their path but the two men shoved by him.

Ed backed up and shot a frantic glance around the store room. Nothing but pots and the small table and bench he'd been working at. " _Fuck_." He whipped the chain out of the way and put the table between himself and the door; as defenses went, it wasn't much.

The soldier with the black eye sneered as he entered the room, stalking around one side of the table while the guard took the other. "All right you little bitch. We've got some unfinished business."

Ed narrowed his eyes, bracing himself with his hand on the iron pot he'd just been scrubbing. "Oh yeah?" he said with a challenging grin. "It took a few more of you last time."

"Cocky brat—"

The guard lunged. Ed swung the pot into his chest and then snapped a kick at the soldier, catching him in the side of the knee. The leg buckled and he cried out in surprise and anger, but as he went down he caught the chain.

Ed choked as he was yanked to the floor, landing hard on his empty port. Disoriented, he swung his automail leg blindly. He scored a glancing blow and the pressure on the collar eased slightly, but before he could get to his feet the other man grabbed his right ankle and jerked the leg out from under him, while the first man strengthened his grip on the chain and wrenched it in the other direction.

Ed gagged, grabbing at the collar as he kicked down reflexively. He had no idea what he hit, but the guard dropped his foot with a curse. Ed pulled his legs beneath him and swung a punch at the soldier. It just barely clipped his jaw, but it distracted him enough for Ed to bring his fist down full force on his hand, smashing it against the chain.

Ed shoved himself to his feet and yanked the chain back, coughing. "Back off, fuckers—"

The soldier shook out his hand and snarled. "You're going to pay for that—"

He lunged and Ed twisted, deflecting his momentum to the side, but his missing arm threw off his balance and he staggered. Before he could recover the guard slammed into him and he stumbled. His foot caught on the edge of a pot and they toppled, the larger man landing against him with almost his full weight and knocking the wind from his lungs.

Gasping for air and writhing, Ed punched and kicked frantically at the two men but it was a losing battle and he soon found himself pinned. In a last-ditch effort he sank his teeth into the nearest wrist but all that got him was a cuff upside the head, rapping his head against the stone floor.

For one dazed second, Ed thought that the deafening _crack_ had been his skull. The two men seemed to have frozen above him, staring at the door, and he lay still, not sure what had just happened.

"Corporal Howards. Private Jensen," a woman's voice barked. "Stand down."

As soon as they released him Ed scrambled back. He pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall and looked between his attackers and the blonde woman standing just inside the doorway. He recognized her as the soldier so often seen with Mustang, a sharpshooter if the rumors were true. She had her gun trained on the two men, but scarier still was the cold stare she was leveling at them.

"Your actions are unacceptable," she continued, "and will be reported in full."

"Lieutenant—"

"Please wait for Colonel Mustang in his office. Warrant Officer Falman will escort you."

The two men stared back with jaws clenched and faces going red. The solider—Ed didn't know if he was Howards or Jensen, and didn't much care—slid his eyes to Ed for one last, hateful glare before he and the other man walked stiffly out of the room to join the tall soldier who'd been standing behind the Lieutenant. Ed eyed them, waiting until they were gone before he let himself cough and rub at his neck.

"I'm so sorry, son!" Cook squatted down in front of him, his hands hovering in the air as if he didn't know what to do. "I got the lieutenant as quickly as I could. Did they hurt you much?"

"Nah." Ed coughed and tried again, flashing a grin to make up for the rasp in his voice. "Nah, I'm fine. They haven't got what it takes to best me." It _had_ been close—uncomfortably close. He didn't want to admit how shaken he was.

The lieutenant put a hand on the cook's shoulder. "Perhaps you could get some ice?"

"Ice. Yes."

Cook bustled off and the woman knelt down in his place, offering the young hostage a smile. "Ed, isn't it?"

"Y-yeah . . ." Ed replied, wondering if he could trust the change in demeanor. She _seemed_ genuine.

"Riza Hawkeye," she replied, just as if they were meeting on the street. "Here." She eased his chin up, gently prodding at his neck and jaw with the pads of her fingers.

"M'fine," he mumbled. All this fussing over him was weird.

"Mm-hm." Her tone made it clear she was going to go ahead no matter what he said. Cook came back with a towel wrapped around some ice and she took it and pressed it under his jaw. "There's not much we can do about the bruising, but we'll see if we can keep the swelling down."

Ed grunted in acknowledgement as he took the ice from her.

"I think it would be best if Ed came with me for now," Hawkeye told the cook.

Cook shook his head. "Colonel Mustang has the key to the chain, I don't—"

He broke off in a squeak as Lieutenant Hawkeye drew her weapon. She took aim, and fired two neat shots into the lock on the far end of the chain. "I'll notify the colonel that I'm taking responsibility for his hostage for the rest of the day," She continued, calmly going over and tugging the chain free of the ruined mechanism.

Ed stared, dumbfounded—then squalled as the icepack slipped out of his grip and landed in his lap.

* * *

"Central won't be sending another truck any time soon," the supply master informed him with a tired sort of resignation. "Say they can't afford it."

Roy nodded as he watched the mechanics fuss around the out-of-commission trucks in the courtyard. The false top had been cleared away along with any remaining booby-traps, but the fact that it had been set up so cleanly and so _quietly_ right under their noses continued to worry him. "Meaning our next delivery of supplies might not come on schedule?"

"No one said as much, but it was sounding that way. We can make due with what we have for the time being, but if we're pressed. . . ." He made a vague gesture.

"Mm." In other words, if the conflict escalated, if they took too many more prisoners, if more than the odd soldier took ill, or if the food stores were compromised, they might be in trouble. "How many vehicles do we have left?"

"Two. Enough to get a dozen or so out in an emergency, but the rest would be stranded."

"It's a long walk across the desert to the train station," the colonel agreed.

"Sir, if we don't resolve this soon—"

"Is that the contingency for our supplies? A swift resolution?"

The supply master grimaced. "I'm only repeating what I was told, sir. No one specified, but. . . ."

"But?"

"One or two hinted that Command might be more eager to send supplies if they knew they weren't going to waste."

"I see."

"If they. . . ."

"Go on."

"Well . . . if they saw some results."

He allowed himself a tight smile. "Central Command is getting downright pushy." Parliament had given Lieutenant General Grumman full authority and Grumman had passed that down to him. The Fuhrer and his inner circle could make noise and try to squeeze their supplies, but couldn't interfere directly without the cooperation of Parliament.

"Sir, they might—"

A gunshot interrupted the rest of the supply master's sentence, putting both men on alert. Hearing gunfire wasn't unusual, but this had sounded like it came from the mess.

" _Hold, all of you_!" Roy snapped at those nearby. The last thing he needed was a half dozen soldiers running in half-cocked. A single shot was more likely to be some over-eager enlisted getting trigger-happy than an actual engagement with combatants. All the same, his thumb was pressed to his first two fingers as he approached the mess hall. Foremost in his mind was that he'd left Ed in there. He didn't _think_ he would have caused such a commotion, but he hadn't known the young prisoner long enough to be sure of anything, and he didn't want the kid to get hurt.

As he got near the kitchen Roy could hear a familiar female voice and it immediately put him at ease, his fingers relaxing as he stopped just short of the doorway. Hawkeye was using her _insubordinates and idiots_ voice and it sounded like she had the situation under control. Not so happily for whoever was in her line of fire, of course.

A small group exited the store room, headed for the kitchen's back door, and the colonel stepped back to keep out of sight. The two men Falman was escorting were red-faced and seething and Roy frowned to himself. Both were leftovers from Hakuro's time here and, if he was remembering correctly, both had been involved in the scuffle during Ed's capture.

He should have been more careful.

If he knew Hawkeye he could guess where those men had been sent. He could deal with them later. The urge to go in there and make sure Ed was okay was strong but he fought it down, deliberately turning his back and walking away from the kitchen. This was a delicate game he was playing with his hostage, and one wrong move might upset the whole board. He could trust Hawkeye to see to his concerns—he winced at the sound of two more gunshots and tried not to think about the property damage—which left him free to better plan his next move.


	6. Chapter 5: There's Always Reasons

Ed leaned back, craning his neck to try to see out the crack of the door. That Hawkeye woman was outside talking with the soldier he'd seen her with earlier, but he couldn't hear more than a low murmur of voices. As curious as he was, Ed wasn't about to outright spy on them, not after seeing that woman's temper.

Hawkeye had him helping with the filing. It was incredibly boring, but at least it beat scrubbing pots—barely. Of course the papers didn't have anything useful on them; Ed now knew more than he ever wanted to about the military's usage of underwear and bar soap, but that was about it. At least the lieutenant was pleasant enough company. She was tolerating his questions and even chatting with him, though she was being careful with what she said. Over lunch she had revealed that she and Mustang had known each other for quite some time—that he had, in fact, learned alchemy from her father. Ed had a hard time picturing the suave colonel as a youth bent over his books (and an even harder time imagining the lieutenant as a girl) but it was an amusing thought.

The door swung open and Ed snapped his attention back to the filing cabinet. "No need to put this in writing, not yet," Hawkeye was saying. "Colonel Mustang hasn't decided on a course of action."

"Understood. I'll keep you informed if I find anything new." The soldier saluted the lieutenant, acknowledging Ed with a nod and smile before he left.

Ed looked over as Hawkeye pulled another stack of folders out and set them on the table. "Um—you and—that guy," he jerked his thumb at the door. "You came here with Mustang, right?"

"Warrant Officer Falman," she clarified. "And yes. We're both part of the colonel's office staff."

"What about that blond guy with the rifle—the smoker. Him too?"

"Second Lieutenant Havoc. That's right." She set a stack of papers down on top of the cabinet. "These go in the second drawer."

Ed wrinkled his nose as he picked up the first one. "Why d'you need to keep records of this stuff, anyway?" he muttered.

"Accountability." He thought he saw a bit of a smile before she turned back to the folders. "And to answer the question you're leading to, about half of the soldiers here currently are from East City. Five of us are in Colonel Mustang's immediate staff. The rest are from Central."

"Hmm."

Ed watched her out of the corner of his eye as he thumbed through the folders in the drawer. It had been hard to tell, but ever since Mustang had come here it had seemed that his soldiers operated differently from Hakuro's. Ed supposed it all came back to what the commander wanted and expected from his troops, but something still bugged him.

"If Liore's in the eastern area, shouldn't it be East City's problem anyway?"

"That's right."

"Then why the hell was that Hakuro bastard put here?"

"I'm afraid you would have to ask the Fuhrer that question."

Ed grumbled and stuffed a couple of the forms into their place. "But it makes no fucking sense. All he did was make things worse. It's like the Fuhrer _wanted_ a damn war—"

Ed jolted, his hand skittering against the papers. He snatched his hand back with a curse and stuck his finger in his mouth to stop the stinging. "Paper cut," he mumbled to Hawkeye's concerned look. "S'fine," he added when she reached for his hand.

Despite his protests, she tugged the finger out of his mouth and examined it. "Mm-hm. You should be more careful. Even the paperwork is dangerous here."

Ed snorted. "Yeah, I can see," he muttered, but his mind was elsewhere.

This conflict hadn't been an accident. The Fuhrer—or someone—had wanted a war. And Ed had a sinking, sick feeling he knew who some of the key players were.

The question was _why_.

Before he could organize his troubling thoughts enough to voice them, there was a quick knock at the door. Lieutenant Havoc gave Hawkeye a casual salute as he let himself in. "Hey. The Chief is still busy ripping those two a new one, so I'm supposed to take Ed here back to his quarters." He let out a low whistle when he caught sight of the youth. "Damn. They really did a number on you there."

Ed rubbed self consciously at his sore neck. "Nah, I'm fine," he insisted. "If it weren't for that fuckin' chain they wouldn't've stood a chance."

Havoc chuckled. "I don't doubt that. Even without your arm. Eh . . . speaking of the chain. . . ." He gestured to the metal links. Hawkeye hadn't re-latched it and it was currently coiled on the floor by his feet. "I hate to do this, but it's regs, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know," Ed grumbled. He waved his hand. "Whatever, it's fine."

The soldier looked apologetic as he picked up the chain.

As Ed turned to leave Hawkeye touched his shoulder. "Thank you for your help this afternoon, Ed."

"Huh? O-oh. Yeah," he stammered. It seemed so odd for _her_ to be thanking _him_. "And, um—thank you. For—um, just—thanks." He hoped she could hear the sincerity. From the smile she gave him as he left he guessed that she did.

Nothing would make Ed _like_ being kept on a lead, but at least neither Havoc nor Hawkeye treated him like he was less of a person for being a prisoner. The same couldn't be said of the people they passed as they made their way to Mustang's quarters. Most of them either pointedly ignored Ed or outright stared as they went by. Ed scowled, irritation rising with each step. He felt like enough of a freak as it was without having his status as "other" slung around his neck.

"Don't take it personally, most of them don't mean anything by it," Havoc's voice interrupted his brooding. The soldier flashed him a grin. "Besides, they're probably scared of ya."

Ed snorted, a smirk tugging at his mouth in spite of himself. "Yeah? Well, they should be."

"How'd you get that automail, anyway? If you don't mind my asking."

"Um, accident," he mumbled. "When I was a kid. We've got some friends who're automail mechanics and they fixed me up."

"Lucky break. That stuff doesn't come cheap."

"Yeah, and they better not've damaged my arm, or my mechanic's gonna be _pissed_ ," Ed growled.

"Don't worry, it's locked away," Havoc assured him. "Mustang keeps all that stuff under lock and key, that way it doesn't go missing."

The young man raised an eyebrow. "'Missing'? Yeah, I bet things go _missing_."

The taller man shrugged, intent on tapping a cigarette out of the pack. "General Hakuro ran things differently than Mustang does, that's all." But the look he shot the prisoner clearly said there was more.

Ed waved a hand at the military compound. "So how come there's so many of Hakuro's troops still here?"

Havoc made an indistinct noise around the cigarette. "East HQ doesn't have the same resources." His tone was carefully neutral. "So the Fuhrer's loaning them from Central."

Ed thought better of asking further. For one thing they had gotten to Mustang's rooms. But he had more than enough to chew over as it was.

* * *

Roy took a moment to compose himself before entering his quarters. His temper had been warn thin and he wanted all his wits about him when dealing with his hostage. The incident had not been Ed's fault—at _all_ —and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin whatever progress he'd made by lashing out. He let out his breath, carefully schooling his features, then opened the door.

Ed was lying on his cot. He did little more than glance back over his shoulder, his expression guarded. Roy walked over slowly, taking a moment to study him as Ed contemplated the wall. The bruises mottling his neck were quite spectacular, but otherwise the young man didn't seem much worse for wear, at least physically. Considering that he'd been crippled, hobbled, and fighting two against one, that fact was pretty remarkable.

Roy smirked just slightly as he reached down and touched the collar. "Maybe I should consider you 'dangerous'."

Ed shot him a look, but swallowed whatever he'd been about to say as Roy slid the key into the lock on the end of the chain. He waited, wary, until the soldier had stepped away. Then he sat up, fussing at the collar and his neck as he turned to keep him in sight. "Maybe you should. Isn't that the whole point?"

"I suppose." Roy said as he headed for the bathroom. His own views on the military's practices were beside the point.

He took a small jar from the first aid kit in the bathroom. When he returned to the bedroom Ed was giving him a calculating look.

"Or maybe you should keep better tabs on your soldiers, _Colonel_ ," Ed continued. "If they're even yours."

Roy returned his look with an impassive one of his own. "Everyone here is under my command."

"Wouldn't know it by the way those guards act. Seems to me they were just waiting until your back was turned. Fuck knows what they're doing to the prisoners in the camp, they clearly don't care what—"

Roy moved his hand and Ed flinched, almost imperceptibly. His posture was more wary than frightened, but it was enough to cut off his rant. Roy allowed just a bit of a smirk to show through his mask; the kid wasn't likely to know it was from sympathy rather than amusement. He held the jar out, watching as Ed's eyes focused first on his glove and then the salve. It was a few beats later before he reached out to take the jar.

"It's supposed to be good for bruises," the older man explained.

Ed looked between him and the jar, as if waiting for a punchline. Roy wondered if he should offer to open it, but Ed finally wedged the jar between his knees and twisted the lid.

"Soldiers are not ants in a colony," Roy mused as he strolled to the table and took a seat. The food tray still had a small portion that hadn't fallen prey to Ed's appetite. "There are bound to be individuals who clash with their commander from time to time."

Ed watched him with narrowed eyes, but for once kept his opinions unvoiced. Roy smiled as he peeled off his gloves. It was true that he'd been having problems with the soldiers from Central since he'd gotten here, to the point where he wondered if they didn't have some conflicting orders from their previous commander. But maintaining a veneer of control was important, especially in front of someone who was ostensibly the enemy. "In such cases, the problem is addressed, and the individual is dealt with," he added.

"'Dealt with,'" Ed echoed slowly.

"I would transfer them back to Central but we have a shortage of operable vehicles."

Ed cleared his throat and ducked his head toward the jar, but that didn't quite hide the flush on his cheeks. Roy raised an eyebrow as he helped himself to a piece of jerky, cataloging this among all the other bits of trivia pertaining to his hostage.

"What's the point, anyway?" the young man muttered as he dug out a finger-full of the salve and gingerly rubbed it onto his neck. "I mean, why does the military need to be here? This town is out in the middle of nowhere and it's not that big."

"Perhaps. But unrest is unrest."

"It can't be much of a threat."

"Some thought the same about Ishval," he said. "But I suppose you're too young to remember that."

Ed whipped around. Roy tensed and grabbed his gloves as the lid of the jar flew over the table, pinging off the wall behind him and clattering to the floor.

"You want to know what I _remember_?" Ed snarled. "Our train station and half of Main Street burning because we sold wool to the military. You know what else?" His hand closed to a fist in the blanket. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to spring from the cot and make his point physically. "I remember my best friend in _tears_ because she got a letter saying her parents had been _killed_. A fucking form letter! They weren't even military. She and Granny barely had time to mourn before they got overrun by the soldiers maimed in that damn war. So don't—" he breathed in hard, his teeth set, "—don't _fucking_ tell me I'm 'too young' to _remember_."

The room seemed to hold its breath as they locked eyes, each one waiting for the other to move. After several seconds, Roy very deliberately set his gloves on the table, and leaned back in the chair. "It seems I misspoke."

It snapped the stalemate. Ed turned away, his head down and his fist braced against his knee.

If Command got wind of this, they'd say he'd been careless. Dropping his guard enough to give a hostage that kind of opportunity was unacceptable. They would also say that such acting out shouldn't be tolerated.

Yet it seemed he hadn't misjudged the young prisoner after all. For all his anger Ed hadn't attacked him. Even his impromptu missile had gone wide.

"Your aim leaves something to be desired," he remarked.

"Fuck off, I'm not left-handed," Ed muttered without ire.

It seemed like such an absurd admission after everything that Roy had to bite back a sudden urge to laugh.

* * *

Ed burrowed down into the blankets, more to gain some sense of security than for warmth. It was ludicrous—he wasn't five, he didn't believe that a piece of cloth would protect him from monsters—but he couldn't help it. Being taken down so easily had left him shaken and now that there weren't any distractions it was starting to get to him. The realization that the only thing between him and a pretty awful situation was the decency some of his captors was not a pleasant one.

He squirmed around to face the room, peering out from his cocoon of bedding at the large bed against the far wall. Mustang wasn't more than an indistinct mound of shadows in the dark room. Ed just couldn't pin this guy down. He acted like an ass much of the time, but then he would go and do something nice like giving him the salve. He had to be up to something—why single him out as a hostage unless he wanted something—but for the life of him Ed couldn't figure out _what_.

And no matter how hard he tried he couldn't convince himself that the compassion was all an act. For one thing, for all his aggravating ways, he hadn't mistreated Ed. And it was hard to ignore the fact that Liore had gotten much less deadly since Mustang had taken over.

If the Fuhrer—or whoever or _whatever_ was working behind the scenes—had wanted this to escalate to a war, then Mustang was getting in the way. But getting in the way of _what_ —why was a war out here in the middle of nowhere so important? Ed had doubts that the colonel knew any of that, but still, there might be some way to find out—something.

Ed's thoughts were interrupted by a tiny but unmistakable crackle from the direction of the window. He shot upright, the flimsy cot beneath him wobbling and nearly dumping him to the floor. Gripping the edge of the frame, he froze and held his breath, shooting a frantic look from the familiar shadow looming in the window to the figure in the bed. Mustang had shifted, but was now still. Ed couldn't hear the other man's breathing over the thudding of his own heart, but counted what he thought would be three breaths before he eased his feet to the floor.

" _Brother_ —"

" _Shh_!" Ed waved his brother quiet.

Mustang still hadn't stirred. With one eye on the bed, Ed held the chain away from the floor and shuffled toward the now open window as quickly and as _quietly_ as he could. "What the hell are you _doing here_?" he hissed when he'd gotten as close possible.

"Fetching _you_. Now where is the chain attached—"

"Forget the chain! Get out of here before someone sees you, moron—"

"I'm not leaving you here—"

" _Al_! I'm _fine_! But we'll _both_ be fucked if you're spotted!"

"You're not _fine_ , you're all bruised! What has he been doing to you—"

Al started to rise from his crouch and Ed cringed at the metallic scraping and frantically waved him back down. "I'm fine I'm _fine_! This wasn't him!"

"But—"

"It's those guards at the POW camp you need to worry about, not Mustang!"

"Brother, if you're worried he'll stop you, I can—"

" _Will you shut up and listen to me_?" Ed shot another look at the bed. "Mustang hasn't lain a finger on me. At _all_! I'd be in much more danger if I was in the camp like the others, it's those guards who did _this_ ," he pointed to his neck. "Now get the hell out of here before the patrols come by!"

"Still, I should—"

The figure in the bed shifted. Ed swallowed a squeak and flailed at his brother to _go_ , the last thing he needed was to be caught talking to an animated suit of armor. Finally Al got the hint and ducked out of sight.

Before Ed could relax a flame burst into life over his head. He flinched back and ducked under his arm; the fire was too small and too far away to hurt him, but his nerves didn't care about logic. Squinting past the sudden glare, he saw the colonel get to his feet, one hand outstretched. He could only hope that Al was around the corner by the time Mustang got to the window.

"Is there a problem?" Mustang said, his tone a little too mild. He snapped again, sending a ribbon of fire out the open window to light up the alley beyond.

"U-um—" Ed cringed at the window, wracking his brain for a plausible excuse. "—No, I, um—I thought I heard something."

"Mm."

The fire extinguished suddenly, leaving Ed blinking and rubbing his eyes in a room that seemed much darker than before.

"I must have gotten careless."

"Huh?"

Mustang was running a finger over the edge of the sill. "I don't remember leaving the window open."

"U-uh. . . ."

"Perhaps I should increase the patrols in this area as well."

"Um . . . yeah. . . ." He edged back toward the cot. Shivering, he reached for the blankets, bracing himself. He didn't think for a minute that the colonel bought his act; any minute now Mustang would come up with some punishment, or restrict him further, or _something_ , Ed was sure. Especially after his outburst earlier in the evening.

"After all, we've had some strange reports," Mustang said. "Talk of hauntings. . . ."

Ed's head snapped up. " _Hauntings_? What—?"

"You don't think so?"

He sounded amused, in that smug way that really got on Ed's nerves. "Dead is dead," he snapped. "The dead don't come back."

"No?" He followed Ed, pausing on the other side of the cot. "I'll be sure to mention that to our resident ghost. Unless you would like to."

The subtle emphasis in that last part made Ed pause. He opened his mouth but his mind stalled, unable to come up with anything that didn't sound suspicious.

While he floundered, Mustang slid the blanket from his hand and neatly tucked it around the young man's frame. "Do let me know if you hear any other . . . _suspicious_ noises?" With that he headed back to the bed, leaving Ed gaping after him.


	7. Chapter 6: Permission

Ed gripped the edge of the bag with his teeth and fumbled the grimy, sweaty uniform in, one-handed. Desert heat and wool were not a good combination, but of course the military was too stupid to realize that. Grimacing, he gathered the top together and flung the bag toward the door, where it would get picked up for the laundry. He was just glad that he didn't have to wash the thing himself.

He frowned as he worked his fingers under the collar, trying to relieve his sore neck. Mustang had been keeping the chain mostly unlatched today and Ed was grateful, but more than a little confused. He'd been expecting some fallout from the night before—to be further restricted at the very least—but so far there'd been nothing. Mustang hadn't even mentioned it. He'd teased Ed this morning, but about trivial things, and never mentioned the outburst or their middle-of-the-night conversation. The day had been downright dull compared to the day before. It was as if the colonel didn't care that someone was sneaking around and breaking open windows to talk to his hostage.

He heard splashing from the next room that meant the man in question was getting into the bath, and he scowled out of principal. Mustang had made it clear he wanted Ed on hand, as he usually did when he bathed. By now Ed was pretty sure he wouldn't try anything, but it was still awkward. For him, of course. Mustang seemed to enjoy putting himself on display.

The teen hovered in the bathroom doorway, deliberately averting his eyes from the lean form reclining in the water. Mustang was more attractive than any military git had a right to be. Forget attractive; he was dead sexy and he knew it, and knew how to use it. Ed was sure all this flirting and seduction was some ploy to get him to drop his guard. The problem was, as much as he didn't want to admit it, the soldier _was_ managing to get under his skin.

Mustang waved a hand toward the main room, startling Ed out of his thoughts. "Fetch me a drink . . . half a glass from the bottle on the top shelf."

Ed turned to do as he was told. Treated well or not, he was sick of being at someone's beck and call.

He latched onto this irritation, thunking the glass and the bottle of liquor on top of the small cabinet, then hooking his arm around the bottle and bracing it against his side to work off the cork. He was getting better at maneuvering things one-handed, but that only annoyed him more. He didn't want to get used to this, he wanted his fucking arm back.

Ed banged the bottle back into the cabinet and snatched the half-full glass, but then sighed. It wasn't working. Anger was the best shield he had right now but he just couldn't muster up anything but mild annoyance. It would be so much easier if Ed could hate his captor, but as aggravating as Mustang was, he hadn't been a bastard where it counted.

Damn him.

Ed stalked back to the bathroom, annoyed with himself for not being more annoyed.

"You know, if you break one of those bottles, you'll have to pay for it." Mustang smirked up at him, one arm draped casually on the side of the tub.

Ed stared at him. "I'm a prisoner, I don't have any money."

"There's more than one kind of currency."

Wet fingers caressed the back of his hand before Mustang slid the glass from his grip. Cheeks burning, Ed fixed his glare on the bastard's face, refusing to look into the water. Not like he had that first time. It was even more tempting now, knowing what he'd see. But he didn't want this bastard to think he had _that_ sort of power over him.

Mustang leaned against the back of the tub and sipped his drink, meeting his slave's eyes with his lips curled just slightly at one edge. "Care to join me? The water rationing won't allow us to fill the tub a second time."

Ed shifted, glancing away. "Um. . . ." Mustang had offered _that_ that first night, too. Ed had given him a _fuck no_! that he'd tried to make sound livid instead of frightened, but this time he couldn't summon up either.

"You must be sweaty from all the work you did today." Fingers brushed against his arm and Ed jumped, his head snapping back around. "But it's up to you," Mustang finished, his hand lingering on Ed's wrist for a moment before withdrawing to the tub.

Ed bit his cheek to keep himself from blurting some half-formed thought and stared, trying yet again to figure out the other man's game. As a prisoner of war he had no rights save those his "master" decided to give him. If Mustang wanted to he could simply order him to bend over and take it—in fact Ed had expected just that. He didn't have a problem ordering Ed around any other time, but in anything that came close to intimate he was constantly giving him a choice. Tease him and back off. He desired Ed, that was clear, but he'd never even directly mentioned sex. What was the point in trying to seduce what was technically already his?

But if he desired Ed and wouldn't take him, that gave Ed some measure of power. Mustang might be trying to make _him_ drop his guard, but maybe it could go the other way around. If he could play this right.

"Yeah . . . yeah, okay."

If Mustang was surprised, he didn't show it. But he didn't look smug, either, at least not too much. He just sat back and sipped his drink, smiling like a cat who'd just stolen a prime sunning spot. The young man tugged on the laces of his tunic and watched the man watch him, trying to decide if this was a big mistake.

Ed turned away as he pulled the garment over his head. This was not the time to start blushing, he had to be in control. His shorts and underwear quickly joined the tunic, and he braced his hand on the side of the tub.

Mustang shifted his legs to make room, and Ed paused. He hadn't considered just where he'd be sitting. It was a good-sized tub, but it wasn't _that_ big. Steeling himself and carefully not looking at the tub's other occupant, he climbed in.

Ed closed his eyes and almost moaned in contentment as he sank into the hot water. He hadn't had a proper bath in ages.

A hand touched his back and he flinched. Mustang smoothed water over his skin, working back and forth across his shoulders, slowly coaxing his tense muscles to relax. By the time a stream of water trickled over his hair, Ed had almost gotten used to the attention.

Mustang filled and emptied the small pitcher a couple more times, cupping his other hand to guide the water away from the young man's face. "If you move back a bit, I'll wash your hair for you."

Ed scooted back, until the other man's knees were on either side of his hips. He still couldn't tell if this was genuine kindness or a ploy, but his hair _had_ been feeling gross. Deft fingers worked their way into his hair, alternately rubbing and scratching at his scalp, and Ed found himself leaning back. The man sure knew how to use his hands.

A ribbon of foam escaped down his cheek and Mustang chased it with a finger. "Close your eyes," he said, his voice soft and low. "I wouldn't want to get soap in them."

"Uh-huh." Ed didn't point out that they already were.

Palms smoothed over the crown of his head, stroking his hair back, and then fingers burrowed in at the nape of his neck. They rubbed in firm circles, slowly moving up behind his ears, then his temples. Ed thought he could very easily get used to this.

The hands pulled away and Ed almost leaned back after them.

"Keep your eyes closed."

Ed scrunched his eyes and bent his head forward, as Mustang poured several pitchers of water over his hair.

"You have such beautiful hair," the older man remarked as he finger-combed the wet strands, pulling them back from Ed's face and wiping away the remains of the shampoo. "It's a shame for it to be so dirty."

Ed snorted, but he was feeling too good from the scalp massage to work up any real annoyance. "You try washing your hair in the sink with only one hand."

Mustang chuckled. "Maybe if your arm wasn't such a dangerous weapon, you would be allowed to have it."

Ed had created that blade and he could just as easily uncreate it, but admitting that would be admitting too much.

He straightened up as Mustang smoothed some sort of cream into his hair. Even if the man did have an agenda, it felt good to be fussed over. "Like it matters. Wouldn't do any good to kill _you_ , military'd just send some other creep here to take your place."

"Mm. The military is efficient like that."

Truthfully, Ed didn't want Mustang gone. Any other field commander would probably be as bad as the first one. He could just about convince himself that that was the _only_ reason he wanted the man to stick around.

The hands pulled back, and then a washcloth was rubbed against his back, working away the collected sweat and dust and grime as well as any remaining tension. Ed was going positively limp under the ministrations.

Mustang swept his hair over his shoulder, and carefully nudged that hateful collar higher up on his neck. "This must chafe." The words were soft, and seemed a natural accompaniment to the washcloth that pressed against his neck.

"'Course it chafes," was Ed's retort. But the bite in his words was small.

"Mm."

The way he dabbed at the abused skin was almost tender. He wiped away the grit and grime with the utmost care, while his other hand held the collar out of the way and away from the bruises, one finger absently stroking behind his ear. Ed arched his neck, shifting as Mustang worked his way to the side, and then the front. He hooked his hand around to press the washcloth against the young man's throat, resting his arm against the automail port. Ed swallowed.

Mustang caressed the edge of his ear. "I am sorry for this," he said. "I've never liked the practice."

"Why? Makes it easier to control prisoners, doesn't it?"

"Does it?"

Ed wasn't sure how to take such an enigmatic response.

Mustang switched hands, and this time when the arm slid against his shoulder Ed could feel it. The weight, the warmth, the texture of his skin, the water that collected between them and ran down his chest—he was hyper aware of all of it. He swallowed again, feeling his throat move against the washcloth.

As if in response, Mustang's thumb brushed his neck, just at the edge of where the collar now hovered. The touch lingered for a moment, and then withdrew. He let his hand rest on Ed's shoulder as he eased the metal band down. "But that's not for us to question."

Ed had assumed that once the difficult to reach places were taken care of, Mustang would relinquish the washcloth, but instead he rubbed it against the soap and ran it down Ed's arm. It skimmed down the whole length, starting at his shoulder and plunging into the water to reach his hand. It lingered there, lacing their fingers together with the cloth between them for a moment before sliding away again, caressing the sensitive area. The other hand was lightly tracing his spine, as if marking his vertebra.

Ed could feel his face heat up, and he suddenly realized just how out of his league he was. He had no idea how to respond. Should he encourage this, or make Mustang earn it somehow? Even as this thought struck him, the washcloth ran up the underside of his arm, and then down his side, all the way down to his hip. A large part of him wanted to turn into the touch. But would that be him using the other man, or letting himself be used?

After lingering for a moment, the washcloth traveled back up, and hooked around to his stomach. The water shifted as Mustang leaned forward to flatten his hand against the young man's sternum, as his other hand slid into the water, coming to rest at his waist. It was almost like being embraced. Ed could feel the man's breath against his wet skin, hot and whiskey scented.

His body chose this moment to react. He tensed; his first impulse was to spring from the bath, but not only would that make his developing situation ridiculously apparent, it would shift the balance of power completely away from him.

The washcloth retreated to his side and a thumb stroked his waist. He supposed it was meant to be soothing, but under the circumstances, it was really not helping. "Do you want me to stop?" Mustang asked.

"No!" Ed surprised himself by saying. "No . . ." he repeated, almost to himself. "I don't want to you stop."

"Neither do I," the older man purred, running the washcloth down his hip and along his thigh.

Ed—gave up. Power plays and who was using whom seemed meaningless. It felt so good to be touched that he just wanted more. Cautiously he leaned back, and when the other man tugged him closer, he let himself be moved.

Mustang leaned around him, running the washcloth up and down the automail leg just as if it were flesh. Ed supposed it was as dirty as the rest of him, but the sensuous movements seemed out of place on the unfeeling metal. Watching it, though, was having a strange effect on his breathing. Not to mention other parts of his anatomy. He bent his leg to make it more accessible, and Mustang drew a finger along the steel calf, in a way that would have made his right leg jump.

After exploring his knee, Mustang slid his hand along the inside of his thigh, and the sudden change from metal to flesh made Ed gasp. He bit his lip. The hand continued to make its way up his leg, coming teasingly close to his groin before the washcloth was switched to the other hand. This time he could feel the nubbly texture of the washcloth and the smooth, almost satiny feel of skin against skin. He bent this leg, as well. Mustang's chest was pressed against his back, his nose against his ear, as he reached around to run his hand down Ed's shin. Ed relaxed back against him, and felt lips against the shell of his ear.

A small voice was warning him that he was playing right into the soldier's hands. He must want him pliant and agreeable and was using sex to get him there. Ed didn't have an argument to that—but it felt too good to want to stop.

The washcloth skimmed up his leg and around his hip, then up. The trailing edge brushed against his arousal as it traveled along his stomach and he whimpered.

"Shh. . . ." Mustang leaned back, and Ed let himself be pulled along. "I'd like to make you feel good," he murmured, breath warm on his ear. The washcloth rubbed against his nipple and Ed sucked his breath in. "Will you let me?"

"Yes—fuck—touch me already!"

The other man chuckled, draping the washcloth over the side of the tub. "I didn't want to presume."

But Ed was his prisoner—his slave in all but name. Mustang had a right use him any way he wanted.

"Here." The older man shifted him, so that Ed was leaning against his thigh with his head resting on his arm. "I want to watch," he explained, smirking down at the smaller man.

Ed's gaze was caught by the dark eyes. Mustang was an enigma most of the time, but right now all Ed could see was desire and an intensity of focus—all directed at him. It was more than a little overwhelming, but it was such a refreshing change that Ed wanted to cling to it like a lifeline. He was so tired of being on edge and having to second guess everything.

Mustang flattened his hand against Ed's chest, then slid it downward. Ed's breath quickened in anticipation and the other man smirked, the expression amused and—if Ed could believe what he was seeing—fond. He didn't get much time to analyze it, though, because the hand had reached its destination.

Mustang was exploring him, there was no other term for it. The fingers traveled up and down his length and over his balls, cupping him and stroking him and taking a moment to tease back his foreskin but never doing quite _enough_. Ed gripped Mustang's leg and tried to buck, but his position was less than ideal for it. He arched his head and let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine, the water sloshing with his writhing. Just when he was getting ready to do something desperate—though he wasn't sure if it would be taking himself in hand or biting the other man—Mustang gave him a squeeze.

Ed went still, with a sharp intake of breath that was _not_ a squeak.

"Shh," Mustang soothed again. "I'm not planning to tease you for long." True to his words his hand tunneled around Ed's shaft, the pressure alone enough to make him groan. "I needed to get your measure so I would know how best to pleasure you."

Ed wasn't listening. The hand was moving now, settling into a nice rhythm and applying pressure at just the right time, the warm water easing the friction until it was tantalizing. He arched his back, his eyes closed, and moaned. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt his good. Jerking himself off on the sly just couldn't compare. He didn't last long—but after all that teasing, that was only to be expected.

Once spent, he sagged against Mustang's side and tried to catch his breath. That had been . . . intense.

A hand, dripping with water, stroked away the strands of hair clinging to his face. Ed cracked an eye open, and found Mustang smiling down at him. Not smirking—actually smiling.

"U-um. . . ." Ed shifted, then froze, realizing just what had been pressing against his hip. A glance down into the water confirmed his suspicions.

"Well, you can hardly blame me," Mustang chuckled, caressing his jaw, "after a display like that."

Ed felt his face go scarlet.

He scooted away, just far enough that he could twist and face the other man. He'd suspected before, but now he was certain. "You want to fuck me." It wasn't a question or an accusation.

"Mm. . . ." Mustang ran a finger along the edge of his empty port. "Not the wording I would use, but an accurate statement."

"And if I say 'no'?"

"Then we won't."

Ed's jaw worked as he stared at the man who currently controlled his fate. Just the fact that he asked could be considered disobedience. He reached up to his collar, shoving his fingers between the metal and his skin and gripping, his bruised neck more than enough of a reminder of just how bad his situation could've been. But Mustang has said _we_. Not ' _I_ won't.' "What is with you and the asking?" he blurted. "If you wanted, you could just take." The man clearly did want him, the proof of that was right there between his legs. It wasn't as if Ed could stop him.

Mustang dribbled some water on his shoulder so that it trickled down along the edge of the port, and then chased it with his finger. "I ask because I want to ask."

"Even if it means I might refuse you?"

"Yes." Mustang covered Ed's hand with his own, gently coaxing his fingers loose and shifting the collar to a less uncomfortable position. "Even so."

As Ed stared, Mustang took his hand in between his, cupping water between them and massaging his palm, ignoring what had to be a demanding hard-on. Ed considered for a long moment, then pulled his hand away.

Mustang let him go. He let him go, and made no move to reach for him. Ed got the feeling that if he left now, Mustang wouldn't press him. That's what finally decided him.

the water sloshed as he surged forward. His aim was off and his lips hit the edge of the other man's mouth, but he quickly repositioned, bracing himself against the back of the tub. Mustang's arms wrapped around him, drawing him in, and Ed relaxed against him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

"So fuck me, then," he said against the older man's mouth. "Fuck me. I'm letting you."

Mustang breathed a "Thank you," before engaging him with another kiss.

Was this a mistake? Was this letting the enemy win? Quite possibly. But as Ed rubbed his thigh against the other man's cock and felt his own groin tightening, he didn't care. He wanted this.

Mustang's hands stroked up and down his back, pressing him close. One arm slid around his waist, lifting him slightly. "Here." The other hand slid down his thigh, nudging his legs apart. Ed got the hint and they shifted, rearranging their legs so that Ed's were on the outside.

He sat back against Mustang's thighs while the other man searched the nearby shelf, no doubt looking for the jar of bath oil. Ed flattened his hand against the pale chest with its light dusting of dark hair, trying to think through his reawakened desire. "Is this why you chose me?"

Mustang glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "You mean, did I pick you as a hostage because I wanted to fuck you? No."

"It's okay if you did." Because he had asked, instead of taking.

Mustang smiled, one hand cupping his hip and urging him onto his knees. "It isn't why."

The fingers of his other hand curled around the back of his thigh, traveling up and back until they found what they were looking for. Ed bent forward to provide more room, resting his head on the other man's shoulder, shifting until he was comfortable. His breath caught as fingers pressed against his opening, gentle but insistent. Mustang rubbed his other hand up and down the young man's spine, waiting.

Ed took a deep breath, and relaxed bit by bit, letting the caress draw away his tension. Mustang eased first one finger inside, and then a second, making soothing noises as he worked them deeper. Ed tensed for a brief moment, pressing his face into Mustang's neck, then relaxed. It seemed the most natural thing to do.

Liquid fire shot up Ed's spine and he groaned, arching his back and pressing against the fingers. Chuckling, Mustang stroked him _there_ again, then spread his fingers.

"S'fine, that's fine," Ed moaned into his neck. The fingers were just a teaser—he wanted the main event. "Y'can get on with it."

"If I rush this, I might hurt you," he said, twisting his fingers and spreading them once more, stretching him in a way that sent little slivers of pleasure across his skin. "And I wouldn't want that."

"Fu-uuck. Don't tell me you're saying you're so big—that—" Ed dropped his hand down into the water and found the other man's crotch.

Mustang jumped, his fingers twitching and making Ed hum with pleasure, as Ed's hand closed around him. He smirked as he ran his hand along the man's length. It was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, but his ego didn't need the encouragement. "Nothing I can't handle."

Mustang made a noise that was probably supposed to sound unimpressed. "I suppose your field of experience is so very vast."

Ed straightened, still smirking. "It's enough."

There was a challenge in his expression as he smirked back, sliding his fingers free and gripping the young man's hips. "Well, then. If you think you're up to it. . . ."

Ed scooted forward until he was in position. "Oh, I'm ready."

"Let's see, then," he said, his voice husky.

He lined them up with one hand and guided Ed's hips with the other. Ed lowered himself onto the waiting shaft eagerly, gasping at the little rush of water and gritting his teeth at the burn. He probably could have done with a little more stretching, but at the same time it felt so _good_. He might have a different opinion tomorrow when he woke up sore, but right now he savored the feeling.

After settling himself down, he bared his teeth in a fierce grin. Mustang was watching him with his eyebrows drawn down in apparent concern, and one edge of his mouth twitched up. "Don't worry," Ed said. "It's not like you're gonna _overwhelm_ me."

"Good." Mustang squeezed his hips, then moved his hands to rest on the younger man's thighs.

And waited.

With a start Ed realized that Mustang was letting him take the lead. He could be directing the young man, or shifting their positions enough that he could dominate. But he was putting Ed in control.

Tentatively, he rose up on his knees, then sank back down. Mustang made an appreciative noise, squeezing his thighs. Encouraged, he rose and fell a bit more vigorously, smirking at the little hitching breath he got for his efforts.

Ed braced himself on the other man's shoulder, shifting his angle until Mustang's cock grazed that particular spot inside of him, and quickly found a rhythm of rise and fall, rise and fall. Occasionally he'd grind down or linger at the top, just to see what reactions he could get. It was heady, having that much power.

Mustang's hand slid up his thigh and wrapped around his cock, and Ed groaned. " _Fuck_ , yes."

The older man smirked, stroking him as Ed reached the top of his run. "Did you think I would neglect you?"

Ed empaled himself hard, encouraged not by the words but by the breathless tone. "Better fucking not."

In reality, Mustang didn't owe him a thing. He had no obligation other than to provide his hostage with "reasonable care," a nebulous concept at best. But at that moment, riding the older man with the water sloshing around them, Ed wasn't thinking about that. The give and take seemed only natural. The give and take that meant that, even after he came, he kept up his pace until the man beneath him tensed, gripping Ed's thighs as he thrust up one final time.

Just as it seemed natural to let himself be gathered up to Mustang's chest. He sagged against his shoulder and closed his eyes, feeling the other man's heartbeat and his breath ghosting across his shoulder. The older man was cradling him, one thumb softly stroking his shoulder blade. As if Ed was something precious. He knew he shouldn't be fooled; he was still a prisoner, and was most likely being humored only because Mustang got something out of it. But it was . . . nice.

After a long moment, Mustang's arm slid down to his waist and urged him up. Ed hissed as they disengaged, and a hand rubbed his hip. "Here." One hand pulled away, and then he felt the washcloth against his upper thighs, gently wiping away the remnants of their actions. He flinched as it pressed against his recently abused skin, and Mustang rubbed his back, making shushing sounds.

"M'fine," Ed assured him.

"I'm sure you are."

The hands slid down to his hips, and Ed straightened. The older man looked . . . a little smug, maybe, but mostly just pleased. Contented.

"The water's starting to get cold," Mustang commented.

"Oh. Uh—yeah." Ed glanced down, then to the side, not sure what he was looking for. "I, uh . . . I guess we should get out."

"Mm."

The young man drew back, then turned, and awkwardly climbed over the side, bracing himself until his feet were square on the tile.

Turing to the nearby stand, Ed hesitated; he'd lain a towel out earlier, but only one. Even as tolerant as Mustang was, Ed couldn't imagine he'd be happy to have to use a wet towel, but neither did he think he'd want his hostage dripping all over the bedroom.

The decision was taken out of his hands as Mustang lifted the towel, and Ed sighed internally. He didn't relish the idea of being the second person to use the towel, but at least this way he wouldn't fuck up by doing the wrong thing.

Leaning over the side of the tub, Mustang shook the towel out, and wordlessly wrapped it around Ed's shoulders. His hands lingered against the young man's chest in an almost-embrace before he settled back into the water.

"Um. . . ." Ed clutched at the towel, darting a quick glance at his "master" before turning away. "I'll, um—I'll go get another towel."

A mild "Thank you," was all the man said as Ed darted to the main room.

  



	8. Chapter 7: Monsters and Legends

" _It wasn't that hard, with what you gave me_ ," Hughes said. " _The bulk of the military's wool comes from a small town in the east called Resembool. Based on birth records, your Ed is most likely_ Edward Elric. _He's just shy of sixteen, with one brother a year younger, Alphonse_."

_Al_. "No other family?"

" _None living, as far as I can tell. The mother, Trisha Elric, passed away several years ago. The father_. . . ."

Roy raised an eyebrow at his friend's shift in tone. "Is the father on the birth record?"

" _Yes . . . but that's where it gets interesting. The birth record of both boys lists the father as_ Van Hohenheim."

Roy sat up. "Van Hohenheim?"

" _Thought you'd recognize it_."

How could he not—the name was almost synonymous with "rogue alchemist."

When the military had tightened its hold on alchemy more than a century ago the edict had gone over less than smoothly. Unlike most Roy had read up on both the official and the _unofficial_ records, but the name of _Van Hohenheim_ was known even outside of alchemic circles.

Legend was—and Roy was sure the story was more legend than fact—Van Hohenheim had been a reclusive alchemist with a reputation for doing the impossible. After the law banning all private use of alchemy had passed, the military had tracked Van Hohenheim down in some small, backwater town. Accounts varied on the details, but they all ended the same way: Van Hohenheim refusing to cooperate and facing off with the soldiers. Some accounts say he provoked the soldiers, others say he merely tried to leave, but all accounts say the alchemist was gunned down in the street. And when the dust cleared, Van Hohenheim picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, and walked away.

"It must be an alias."

" _Unless the guy's over a hundred years old. But there's no first name listed and none of the records I have give me any clue who he is_ ," Hughes replied. " _Is it important_?"

"It might be," Roy mused. "We've had some . . . indications of alchemy. It would be unlikely for someone to take the 'Van Hohenheim' unless they were an alchemist."

" _'Indications of alchemy,' right. These indications include arrays and sparkly lights_?"

"Very funny, Hughes. I'm not failing to report concrete evidence."

" _If you say so. Speaking of, things must have calmed down over there if you've got this much time to be nosy about your hostage_."

"That's one way to put it." He rubbed his forehead. "To tell you the truth, we can't _find_ the townsfolk. It's starting to worry me."

" _How do you manage to lose an entire town_?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't have this problem," Roy snapped. "They must have a bolt-hole somewhere, but so far we haven't had any luck."

" _Maybe your alchemist sealed it off_."

"And maybe it was our resident ghost. I'm more concerned that they're planning a trap."

" _Think your Ed might have had something to do with the alchemy_?"

"I have no evidence to that effect," he said carefully.

" _Oh boy. You really_ are _protecting him. Careful there, Roy_."

"I've done nothing against regs."

" _That kid is getting to you, isn't he. I_ told _you to watch yourself. It's_ —"

Roy heard a knock at the other end of the phone, then voices. Hughes hurriedly excused himself and set down the receiver.

Roy sighed, rubbing his eyes. He'd been trying all day to wall off his emotions and keep himself detached. Ed was a hostage, a prisoner of war. The seduction was supposed to be a means to an end: get close and get him to drop his guard. He should be planning how to press his advantage, not—

—Not thinking of the feel of Ed's skin beneath his hands; the way his muscles bunched and flexed; the press of his lips; the way he had finally relaxed into his arms, completely trusting for that one brief moment.

He'd been foolish to think his friend wouldn't pick up on something.

" _Heads up, Roy_ ," Hughes voice cut through his thoughts and instantly put him on alert. " _I just got word that you're going to have company_."

"What? Who?"

" _A small contingent sent to inspect Youswell redirected and is heading your way. They're lead by Lieutenant-Colonel Archer_."

Roy's jaw clenched. "Shit."

" _Did you just swear_?"

"Ed's rubbing off on me," he muttered. "When will they be here?"

" _You've got another day, maybe two at the most_."

"That's it?"

" _Sorry Roy, they crept in under my net. I have people trying to sniff out what he's up to but I can tell you now that this stinks of the Brass_."

"Trying to weasel around Parliament, no doubt. The Brass have never been pleased with me here."

" _You're not dancing to their tune. But Archer . . . something isn't right here_."

"I agree. Keep me updated."

" _Watch yourself. Don't give him anything they can use_."

"I don't plan to."

After hanging up the phone Roy rested his head on his hands, using the relative quiet of the communications room to gather his thoughts.

Too many pieces didn't fit together. Central Command wanted the uprising contained and he was doing that—and with much fewer casualties than Hakuro. He knew he wasn't a favorite of the Brass, and he knew the Brass hated being undermined by Parliament. But he couldn't explain this level of dissatisfaction and meddling when, by all appearances, he was doing what they wanted.

He could worry about that later. Right now he needed to check on his hostage.

As he left Roy pulled on his gloves. Things may have been quiet recently, but Ishval had taught him that the battlefield didn't end at the edge of base. Until he knew this was over—which probably wouldn't be until he was on a train back to East City—he wasn't taking any chances.

He was taking fewer chances with his hostage, as well. After the incident in the kitchens he wasn't going to leave Ed with anyone other than his immediate staff. It was a measure that shouldn't be necessary, but so many of the soldiers from Central were still following Hakuro in spirit if not name.

Right now Ed was in one of the smaller storerooms with Fuery, cleaning some spare parts. It was meticulous and mind-numbing work and would hopefully keep him sufficiently occupied until Roy could—once again—figure out to do with him.

Roy sent the communications officer off to get lunch, then turned to the prisoner. Ed had been withdrawn and edgy all morning, shying away and barely meeting his eyes, answering in monosyllables if at all. If he were to guess, he'd say the young man was unsure of his footing after the night before. If he was to be honest with himself—Roy wasn't much better off.

"Enjoying yourself?"

He smirked as Ed glared up from the bench he was working at. He had smears of grease on his cheeks, which Roy found terribly cute.

"If I say 'yes,' will you move me to something else?"

"Mm . . . that could possibly be arranged. I believe the latrines could use a good scrubbing."

The look on his face was priceless.

Ed bent over to work a brush into the groove of the part in front of him with a grumble along the lines of "fucking bastard." Roy chuckled to himself; at least this was familiar ground.

"Oy," the young man said, head still bent. "If you're gonna make me do shit like this, then tie my hair back. It's in the way."

Roy raised an eyebrow at the command. Ed was eyeing him through the fall of said hair, his cheeks faintly pink. Even a simple demand like that was technically out of line for a prisoner, but there was clearly more behind this than a desire to push boundaries. Ed was seeking out physical contact—an acknowledgement of the night before at the very least, with perhaps a hint of acceptance. The older man smiled as he crossed the space between them, pulling off his gloves to finger-comb the blond hair back.

"I suppose that's reasonable. I wouldn't want you working with a handicap. Well," he touched the metal plate where it peeked out from the neck of the tunic. "Any _more_ of a handicap."

"If I _had_ my arm I could tie back my own damn hair."

"I _would_ like to see how you manage that without slicing off an ear."

He waited to see if Ed would slip and make some acknowledgement that the blade was transmuted, but the young man only snorted. He held out a piece of string without further comment, and Roy obligingly tied his hair into a ponytail.

"There we are." He ran his fingers through the ponytail one last time before stepping back. "Though it looks quite fetching loose."

"Fuck off, I'm not a girl," Ed grumbled. His cheeks were red, but there was the hint of what almost looked like a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Roy smirked as he pulled his gloves back on.

Footsteps in the outer room interrupted them, and Roy tensed. This wasn't the tread of a military boot, but the click of a narrow heel. He pressed his thumb to his fingers as a strange woman stepped into the doorway.

She wore a black cocktail dress, cut low enough to show plenty of cleavage, and long black gloves with red accents. Odd attire for the dessert, but she seemed unaffected by the heat. The woman appeared to be unarmed, but there was something disturbing and sinister about her smile.

"Roy Mustang," she purred, voice low and sultry, as she raised an empty hand. "It's a shame, wasting a man like you. . . ."

Ed slammed into his side, knocking him down. Pain blossomed in his arm as something tore through his skin a moment before they hit the floor. Roy twisted to get a hand free, and saw the woman holding some kind of thin black lance that hadn't been in evidence a moment ago. He snapped, modulating the explosion to subdue but not seriously injure her. He wanted her for questioning.

"That's useless!" Ed cried. "Fry her!"

"What—"

Ed swung a broken radio around just in time to deflect another lance, the strange blade missing Roy's head by inches and carving a deep gouge into the wall. The woman had hardly staggered, snarling at him as she raised her other hand. He snapped again, ducking to shield his face from the intense heat.

"Come _on_ —" Ed grabbed the front of his uniform and hauled him to his feet. He dragged him stumbling from the room, skirting the charred corpse as much as the small space allowed. They were well into the main room before Roy finally managed to brace his feet and yank his jacket out of the boy's grip.

"The woman is dead. We need to—"

Ed grabbed his arm. "She _won't_ be for long—"

"What are you talking about?" Roy resisted but Ed still dragged him several steps. He hadn't appreciated before just how much strength was in that compact body.

"She's a homunculus! They regenerate! She— _aah_!" Ed shoved him back just as two lances skewered the space between them. Roy stumbled against the wall, and got a brief, nightmarish image of the mound of burnt flesh crackling and sparking as it rose upwards. He snapped.

Ed grabbed him by the jacket, and this time Roy didn't hesitate to run.

* * *

"See? still here." Breda picked up the armor's helm. "Still empty. I don't know what you were expecting."

Havoc scratched the back of his neck. "Doesn't it . . . look like it's moved?"

"No. I don't know." Breda tossed him the helm and Havoc scrambled to catch it. "You're way too caught up with this thing."

"You saw last night's reports! Whatever was skulking around the prison camps was a dead ringer for this—" he waved a hand at the armor. "—this."

Breda sighed. "Look, we're all spooked. None of us know how to explain any of this. But unless you can tell me how an _empty_ suit of armor is getting up and sneaking around. . . ."

" _Okay_ , I get it."

"Now are you coming or not?"

"Go ahead. I'll catch up."

"All the mystery meat's going to be gone by the time you get there."

Rolling his eyes, he shooing his friend out of the store room. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Havoc replaced the helm, carefully centering it before stepping back and studying the armor. He could swear the hands had been resting farther up on the legs the day before.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Either I'm going out of my mind, or someone's playing a _very_ elaborate practical joke." He dug a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one out. "Then again, maybe you were put here to distract us while all the townsfolk slipped away. Don't tell anyone I said this, but . . . good for them." He lit the cigarette and took a drag. "We got no business being here in the first place. Dammit, listen to me." He leaned back against a crate and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm talking to an empty suit of armor."

Havoc continued to contemplate the armor as he smoked. Maybe _he_ was the one looking for a distraction. Nothing about the military being in Liore sat right but there was little any of them could do. Mustang was already doing his best to quell this with minimal loss of life, and it was earning him nothing but contempt from Hakuro's leftover soldiers. "I can only imagine the shit he's getting from Central Command," Havoc muttered. "They'd rather we level the place and be done with it, but Mustang ain't the type to do that. If the town really has given us the slip the Colonel will never hear the end of it." He chuckled. "But why am I telling _you_ all this? Maybe I have been out in the sun too long." He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out.

A shadow darkened the doorway and Havoc waved it off without looking up. "I'm coming, I'm coming—"

" _There_ you are!"

Havoc dropped the cigarette butt and snatched his gun. The figure in the doorway _wasn't_ Breda—and something in that thin, eerie voice set him on edge. "Stop where you are! Identify yourself or—or—"

The creature—a round, bald-headed thing that did _not_ look human—stretched its mouth into a sadistic grin and charged straight at him. Havoc fired a wounding shot, then another—the thing hadn't _slowed_ —

A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him back, lifting him right off his feet. The armor—the goddam _empty suit of armor_ —twisted past him and kicked the creature in the chest.

"H-holy—" He was dangling by his collar from the hand of a thing that shouldn't be moving, facing down a thing that _shouldn't exist_ , and for a split second Havoc didn't know where to aim.

"Back off, Gluttony," the armor said with a child's voice. It—he?—shoved him back against the wall and took a defensive stance as the creature righted its balance.

"Awwwww. . . ." the "Gluttony" creature said. "You're supposed to come with me. . . ."

"Forget it!"

Gluttony swiped and the armor met the blow and kicked again. Havoc snapped out of his shock and fired two shots to the thing's head.

"Bullets don't work!" the armor said as Gluttony reeled back. The monster steadied itself, the wounds closing with a faint crackle.

"Well—well what do you suggest?"

The armor crouched down and started to draw on the floor. "I don't know! They don't exactly die."

"'They'?"

"What's going— _gyagh_!" A young sergeant-major stepped into the store room and immediately flinched back at the sight of Gluttony. He fumbled for his gun as the monster turned, grinned—and lunged. Obscenely large teeth sank into the man's arm as if it had been soft bread.

" _No_!" the armor shouted above the sergeant-major's scream. A wave of spikes rose and rippled across the floor, impaling the Gluttony creature and tearing it away from the unfortunate soldier. "That won't keep him long—hurry!"

Not knowing what else to do now that the world had gone crazy around him, Havoc nodded and squeezed past the spikes.

* * *

"A woman in a black dress, armed with unknown weapons, highly dangerous," Roy detailed as the field doctor patched up his arm. The wound wasn't serious—thanks to Ed—but it had already bled down to his hand, soaking his glove. "Exercise extreme caution but use deadly force if necessary. She should _not_ have breached our perimeter and I want _no more_ mistakes. Understood?"

He dismissed the soldiers, and as soon as the doctor was finished dismissed him as well. Ed was hovering near the doorway, all but bouncing with nerves. Roy took him by the shoulder and pulled him into the room, shutting the door and turning the young prisoner to face him. "Talk. I want an explanation."

Ed chewed at his lip, but then met his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Homunculi are compositionally identical to humans but they're formed around a ph—an energy source, and it gives them certain abilities. They regenerate and are damn near impossible to kill. They each have a—a _talent_ , I guess, like Lust's lances—"

Roy held up his hands to halt the flow of words. "That woman? That's 'Lust'? How many of these— _beings_ —are there?"

"I—uh—I'm not really sure." Ed floundered for a moment. "There's three that really like to stir shit up—at least that I've run into—"

"Who do they work for? What are their goals?"

"I don't know!" Ed flailed and Roy grabbed his shoulders to keep him in place. "But they're deep into some—some _shit_ with the military—Envy hinted that _he's_ the one who sparked off Ishval and I'm positive now that they're behind this mess too and they have—they _must_ have some big pull with _someone_ high up in the ranks and there's some big master plan or some goal or something—it's not like they've _outlined_ this shit to me! It's just what I've pieced together from Envy or Lust bragging as they tried to kill me or from Greed—"

"Enough!" Roy consciously loosened his grip, resisting the urge to shake the kid and demand he start making sense. "Okay. Let's assume I believe you. Why was this Lust targeting me?"

"Because you're in their way!" Ed shouted. "Don't you get it? They _wanted_ a war here, that's why Hakuro was put here in the first place! And now you're here and calming everything down and they want you gone because you're _getting in the way_!"

It was ludicrous. Somewhere between a paranoid conspiracy and outright madness. But Roy couldn't deny how well it fit with the way the Brass had been acting ever since he'd been assigned here by Parliament.

Then there was the fact that if Ed had wanted to deceive him he was more than smart enough to have concocted a more plausible story. His gut told him that, whatever the truth was, Ed believed what he was saying.

"This is insane." He moved the young man to one side and opened the door. "Come on."

"Huh?"

"Your _arm_." That was all it took to get Ed to fall into step beside him and he rushed out of the medical wing. "Don't make me regret this."

Ed gave him an odd look. "If I wanted you dead I would have just let Lust skewer you."

He conceded the point with a smirk. "I would have a lot more dead soldiers if you were the type. Even so." They stopped outside the storeroom, and Roy fixed the prisoner with a stare. "I'm taking a big risk."

Ed paused in the middle of brushing out the automail port, meeting his gaze with a sincerity Roy was not sure he deserved. "Yeah. I know. I get that."

He could hear the criticisms: his emotions were clouding his judgement. He'd misjudged and gotten too close. Gotten invested. Arming a prisoner like this was unacceptable and the only reason he was considering it was because he'd let down his guard and this kid had gotten to him.

He unlocked the door.

The prosthetic still rested on the shelf next to the dusty pile of clothes. Being confronted with the keen edge of the blade gave him a moment's pause, but Roy pushed the doubts aside and picked up the arm. Regulations and protocol be damned, he couldn't stand the thought of Ed crippled with that sort of danger about.

"Here." He held the arm out, one hand near the shoulder and the other carefully around the wrist. "Do you need any help?"

"I got it." Ed grabbed the prosthetic. Roy flinched back to keep out of the way of the blade and the young man winced an apology.

Without further word, Ed adjusted his grip and then, visibly bracing himself, pushed the arm into place.

It would have been a scream if his jaw weren't clamped shut. Roy grabbed Ed as he staggered, his heart in his throat. He'd heard that automail attachment was painful, but he'd never imagined _this_.

"Are—are you all right?"

He clearly wasn't, but Ed nodded anyway. "Just—gimmie a second—" he said through his teeth. He leaned against the taller man, his breathing hard and deliberate. Roy held him steady, watching his pale, pinched face. After a long moment, the automail twisted. The hand flexed, then straightened, and the elbow tentatively bent. "Shit. The calibration's off."

"Is it a problem?"

"It's just the fine tuning. Precision's off by. . . ." He straightened the arm out to the side and bent the elbow. "Shit. Almost a centimeter. I can compensate—but my mechanic's gonna be _pissed_."

Ed was still leaning against him. Roy didn't mind in the least, but it was quite a contrast to the prisoner who had flinched any time he was touched. On some level Roy knew he should be trying to take advantage of this change. That had been the point, after all. That was the game.

Gunshots shattered the false calm before he could ponder further. He and Ed both jumped back, and exchanged a brief, panicked look before sprinting for the door.

Roy paused to hastily shut and lock the storage room, finishing just as Hawkeye rounded the corner. "Lieutenant?"

"Sir. We're under attack by unknown parties. I'll take charge of the hostage."

Something seemed _off_ , and he hesitated. In that same moment Ed sprang forward, and before he could raise his hand or even cry out that razor-sharp blade was imbedded in Hawkeye's throat.

"Nice try," Ed hissed.

Roy was frozen by shock and betrayed trust, unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing. But just as he took a step toward the unreal scene, Lieutenant Hawkeye— _melted_. Her face distorted into an inhuman snarl and she oozed back from the blade, her arm whipping around, distending and solidifying into a weapon. Ed yanked his arm free to parry then sliced at the—the _creature_ again.

"You—infuriating—little— _pipsqueak_ —" The monster bore no resemblance to the lieutenant now. It lashed out with one snakelike arm and stabbed with the other, but Ed expertly dodged and parried, getting in a kick and then another slice that forced the thing to jump back. " _Stop interfering_!"

" _Ed_!"

As soon as Ed flipped out of the way Roy snapped, sending the monster up in flames. He snapped again, sending a stronger jet of fire toward it. It writhed and twisted as it burned, trying to get below the flames.

A smoldering appendage shot towards him and he jerked away, his concentration broken. Ed sliced the appendage off before it got close, but the creature was already slither-scrabbling away.

Ed dashed after it, rounding the corner and skidding to a stop. "Shit!"

Roy caught up and quickly scanned the empty alley. "You didn't mention those things can _change shape_!"

He shook his head. "Just Envy. But he's bad enough on his own."

Roy looked at the young man as if he'd never seem him before. Ed was standing with his feet braced and his weight centered, his bladed arm held at the ready just slightly away from his body. He couldn't get the image of that blade in his lieutenant's neck out of his mind, but he'd been right about one thing: he would have a _lot_ more dead soldiers if Ed were a killer.

"Come on." Roy tugged him toward the courtyard. "Is this _Envy_ likely to come back looking like someone else? What can I watch for?"

"Um . . . he sometimes forgets details . . . and he's really not a good actor. But all he needs to do is make you hesitate."

"I'll keep that in mind. What tipped you off this time?"

"Lieutenant Hawkeye isn't that cold—and she calls me 'Ed'."

Of course.

The courtyard was in chaos, with soldiers shouting and running this way and that. The commotion centered on the main storeroom but no one seemed to know quite what was going on. Roy yelled for order, commanding most of the soldiers back until he could asses the situation.

Lieutenant Havoc was on the ground just outside, tending to a man whose arm was a bloody mess. "Leave the armor alone!" Havoc was calling to the soldiers who clustered with weapons drawn at the doorway. "That—that other _thing_ is the danger!"

"Lieutenant! Report!" Roy ordered as soon as he was close enough.

"We were attacked, sir." Havoc finished securing the field tourniquet and then helped the dazed soldier up from the ground. "A single assailant, but it's—it's—"

"Not human?"

The poor man looked like he'd had a chunk taken out of his arm. Havoc passed him off to two others. "I dunno what it is, Sir, but it doesn't die, and—"

"Hey!"

"Get back—"

Roy whipped around just in time to see Ed elbow a soldier out of the way and slip into the storeroom.

"Shit! No!" Havoc grabbed his firearm as he and Roy ran for the entrance. "That thing'll eat him in a single bite—"

" _Get back_!"

They both skidded to a halt as blue light flared in the storeroom, and jumped back as body parts came flying out the door.

As soon as the mounds of flesh hit the ground they started to draw together, reforming the same way Lust and Envy had. That was all Roy needed to see.

"Keep clear!" he warned, before he snapped and turned the flesh and bones into ash and charcoal. "Stay back from it! It's still dangerous!"

Roy turned to the storeroom in time to see what looked like spikes melt back into the floor. Ed was standing to one side, speaking to someone out of sight.

"—Lust and Envy are here, too," he was saying. "They're targeting Mustang."

"That's not all they want."

It was a child's voice, the same voice he'd heard the other night whispering to his hostage through an opened window. The last thing he'd expected to walk into view was the suit of armor that had been sitting empty in their storeroom.

"Shit! That thing's moving!"

Roy turned back and snapped again, returning the creature to ash. " _Can_ these things be killed?" he called to Ed.

"I—I'm not sure," Ed admitted. He pushed past the soldiers at the door and scanned the courtyard. "I _think_ so, but we've never seen one stay dead."

"Can I expect any _more_ to pop up?"

"No—no, this is pretty much it. At least, as far as we know."

"We have three assailants!" Roy called to the surrounding soldiers. "A woman in black, this creature here, and one who—who can disguise himself. Keep alert and use caution!"

"You might add that guns don't do a whole lot," Havoc pointed out. "Oh! You got your arm back!"

A shot sounded on the far end of the courtyard and two men fell. Roy rushed forward, fingers poised, but he couldn't tell where to aim his flames. By now everyone was armed and wary, eyes darting this way and that to find the shooter. He ordered them all to stand down, selecting two to get the wounded to medical. "Hold your fire unless you see a clear threat! These assailants are highly dangerous but there's only three of them. I want everyone in teams of five until—"

" _Aaugh_!"

" _No_!"

Over by the storeroom Havoc had gone rigid. The woman in black—Lust—stood behind him, one arm curled around his chest in a parody of an embrace with a black lance resting on either side of his neck, while two lances protruded from his abdomen. Lust smiled at them from over the lieutenant's shoulder, and Roy swore under his breath. She was too close for him to risk using his flames, and she knew it.

"Now then, there's no need for all this fuss," she said. "You wouldn't want me to slip and twist my hands here, would you?" Havoc made a choked-off, strangled sound as fresh blood seeped out from the around the lances in his side.

Roy's hand shook, his fingers were pressed together so hard. "What do you want?"

She ignored him, turning instead to Ed. The young man stood about five feet from them with his blade raised but he too was frozen.

"That's a good boy," the woman said to him. "Why don't you get your little brother out here so we can all talk? No sense in hiding now."

Ed made no response, but a tense moment later the suit of armor stepped from the storeroom. The nearby soldiers startled and backed up warily as it straightened to it's full height of seven feet. Several took aim at it and Roy signaled for them to stand down. He wasn't sure what part the armor played in all this, but the homunculi were a much bigger threat.

Out of the corner of his eye Roy saw Lieutenant Hawkeye make use of the distraction to move through the crowd. He quickly turned away to not call attention to her.

"There we are. We've been looking for you two. We hadn't thought you'd return here. And you." She turned now to Roy. "You've been quite a little bother, but maybe I acted too hastily. Let's let poor Gluttony finish regenerating, and then let's see what we can work out, mmkay?"

"I don't— _aaah_!" Claws sliced across the back of his hand and he jumped back. The soldier next to him sprang away, dissolving and reforming in midair to a slim, androgynous-looking being with wild hair.

"That's better," it said. "You're far too dangerous, for a human."

Roy spared a glance down, finding a series of slashes on the back of his hand. The wound was negligible, but his glove was ruined.

The mound of charred flesh had reformed into a short, bald man at least as wide as he was tall. He rocked himself onto his feet and turned dull eyes to the woman. "Lust! He burned me!"

"I know, Gluttony. He's been doing that."

"Can I eat him?"

"Not just yet."

"Can I eat _them_?"

A single gunshot broke the odd stalemate. Lust's head snapped back, and Ed immediately sprang forward, grabbing Havoc and slicing at the lances. Gluttony cried out in distress and darted toward Lust with surprising speed but was intercepted by the armor. Envy cursed and shot a spearlike arm toward Hawkeye. She landed two shots before she had to dive out of the way. Several soldiers fired but the lithe homunculus was proving hard to hit.

"Fall back! Stay on the north side of the courtyard!" Roy ordered. "Don't hit the prisoner or the one in armor!"

Ed had gotten Havoc off to one side but was now deflecting attacks from the regenerated Lust. Roy signaled for the gunfire to stop so two men could move in to get the fallen soldier.

Several of the black lances skimmed off the blade of Ed's automail, missing the young man by inches as he dove under the homunculus' attack to get in close. He was driving her back, forcing her to keep her attention on him and away from other targets. It was frightening and compelling to watch.

Roy couldn't let himself get distracted.

His left glove was bloodstained, but might still be usable. He snapped, shifted his fingers and snapped again, and on the third try finally got a weak spark. It was enough to send a jet of flame toward the shapeshifter.

Gluttony charged him and he dove out of the way. Soldiers scattered like pins, falling over each other and leaving themselves perfect targets. Roy snapped, then again, then managed to get Gluttony in flames. With others so close he couldn't risk the intense blaze he wanted, but was enough to slow the thing down.

Someone grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. The armor—Alphonse, he guessed—pulled him out of the way and intercepted an attack from Envy. Roy yanked his arm free and bridged the fire from Gluttony to Envy before the homunculus' regeneration killed the flames entirely.

The armor grabbed him and ran back toward the storeroom, carrying him as easily as if he'd been a child. "Unhand me! Now!"

"You're the one they want dead, _Sir_."

Hearing a preadolescent voice coming out of that huge suit of armor was a surreal cap on an already unbelievable day.

Alphonse deposited him against the wall and knelt, sketching an array on the bare stone faster than Roy would have thought possible. He activated it and the courtyard rippled and bucked, waves of stone pushing the soldiers to one side and rising up to close around each of the homunculi.

Ed slipped and tumbled end over end as the ground rose around Lust, but managed to flip back to his feet like a cat, immediately turning his back on the entombed homunculi and dashing over to Havoc. One of the men stood to block the way—which was pretty brave, considering—and Roy yelled for him to stand down.

"Sir, he's armed! We don't—" Ed had already darted around him and the soldier went for his gun.

"I said _stand down_ , Corporal!" Roy snapped. "We have other priorities."

Havoc gave him a pained smile as Roy knelt down next to him. "Sorry, Sir. Didn't see her coming."

"None of us saw this coming, Lieutenant," Roy assured him. To the man holding a bloody rag to Havoc's side, he asked, "Can you get him to medical?"

"It would be better if we had a stretcher, Sir. With a wound like this he shouldn't be moving."

A shadow fell over them, and then the wooden poles and cloth of a stretcher were thrust down between them. "Here," an echoey, juvenile voice told them. "I used some crates and blankets from the supply room, so it should be strong enough."

The trigger-happy soldier looked ready to jump out of his own skin when confronted by the walking armor, but after a punch and a pointed glare from his comrade he took his hand off his firearm and helped to carefully lift Havoc onto the proffered stretcher.

"Colonel." Hawkeye had followed him over, and now called his attention to the cracking stone coffins.

Ed spun to face the emerging enemy. "I'm surprised it took them this long."

"Well, they had to regenerate first," Alphonse explained.

Roy glanced at the suit of armor. "If we lured them further into the city, would that endanger the citizens?"

"Oh—no."

He smiled thinly. "That's what I thought. Hawkeye, make sure everyone stays within base. Engage the creatures as little as possible—we _want_ them to follow us."

"Sir! You can't go on your own—"

"That's an order, Lieutenant. Lieutenant-Colonel Archer will be here soon and I need you here." He motioned for the men to hurry. It looked like Gluttony was _eating_ his way out. "Archer's going to have a field day when it looks like I've deserted," he added under his breath.

The armor's strange glowing eyes glinted with an unknown emotion. "Would it help to call it a kidnapping?"

Before Roy realized just what he was suggesting, the armor had grabbed Ed and thrown him over one shoulder and clamped an arm around Roy's middle. Ignoring Ed's squalling and Roy's shouts of protest, Alphonse turned and ran from the courtyard just as the homunculi broke free. For the second time in less than five minutes Roy found himself carted off like a piece of luggage.


	9. Chapter 8: Out of the Frying Pan

"You nearly gutted me, you idiot, you're _covered in spikes_!"

Roy winced as a foot clipped his shoulder. He couldn't quite bring himself to squirm and thrash the way Ed was, but he could sympathize; his own twisting and shoving and striking had been ineffective. "This is—unacceptable— _entirely_ out of line—"

The armor jostled him. "Would you rather I let them kill you? That would certainly make _my_ life easier."

"AL!!"

"Oh, calm _down_ , Brother, I obviously _didn't_." Al rounded a building in the center of town and dumped Roy in its shade. Ed he deposited with a little more care. "And if you keep carrying on like that they'll be on us before we're ready!"

"You've gone _insane_ ," Ed griped.

"Well I had to do _something_!"

Roy picked himself up and did his best to dust off his dignity. "Did you have a plan before you dragged us out here?"

"Did you?" the armored boy shot back. "Forgive me, Sir, but you barely know what you're dealing with."

It galled him that he didn't have a response to that.

All knelt down and sketched out an array. It was a simple design, but the speed and precision had Roy impressed. "Hand me your glove," the boy said. "I should be able to get the blood out."

It was incredibly hard to read someone with no facial expressions, but the boy's tone seemed honest enough. Roy peeled off the soiled garment and held it out with only a slight hesitation. "Careful. The ignition cloth can be . . . touchy."

"Is it a plant-based or synthetic fiber? Not a protein fiber like wool or silk?"

"It's—linen," he said with some surprise. "With synthetic and mineral components."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem." he insisted with the air of someone who had done this before. He set the glove in the center of the array and continued to talk as blue light flared, glinting off the battered metal of the armor. "All I need to do is isolate the proteins and lipids of the blood and separate them from the fibers."

"That simple, huh," Roy muttered. He had designed the ignition cloth himself and still had no end of trouble with it. But the glove the boy handed him seemed almost new, and readily generated a spark. "Are you our resident alchemist, then? The one with a love of booby traps?"

Ed coughed and took a sudden interest in some nearby statuary.

"Planning to arrest me?" Alphonse challenged.

"I'm not sure what I'd be arresting. The last I knew, that armor was empty."

The boy lifted the helm. The shadowed hollow flew in the face of everything logical and decent, and Roy had to bite back an exclamation. It seemed his subconscious had still been expecting a flesh-and-blood body to go along with with the voice.

"It's a story we don't have time for." The boy's voice echoed, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere within the metal. He replaced the helm, smoothing the tassel back with care. "And frankly I'm not sure I should tell you."

"I'm not hearing gunfire anymore!" Ed interrupted.

Still locked in a stare with the armor, Roy gave his glove an unnecessary tug. "So, a plan? If these homunculi can't be killed and can't be contained, what are our options?"

"We gotta make it enough of a pain that they give up," Ed said. "Gluttony's single-minded, but he's stupid. It's Lust and Envy we gotta worry about."

"Lust said they've been looking for the two of you. Any idea _why_?"

The strange brothers shared a look. "No clue," Ed insisted. "They just seem to show up whenever we get close to—"

" _Brother_."

Ed made a face. "I wasn't _gonna_. Look, it doesn't matter. We don't _know_ why. Al—what about the tunnel? What if we trap them in there?"

"The _tunnels_? But—"

"Tunnels," Roy muttered. "I knew it."

"No, Al, the _tunnel_. The first one. And what if we seal it up after them."

A figure stepped around the building to their right, a brown-skinned man with a prominent scar across his face, and Roy tensed. This wasn't one of the three they'd been fighting, but the man was staring at him with such hostility that he wasn't sure he was any safer.

"Scar!" Al stood. "What are you doing here?"

The man ignored the question, eyes fixed on Roy as he stepped toward them, one hand tensing into a claw. "Flame Alchemist. . . ."

In a heartbeat Ed was between them, arms spread. "No! He's not—it's not—you _can't_!"

The scarred man paused only a few feet away, looking ready to reach out and strangle Roy. Close enough that the mahogany color of his eyes was clear. "He was there. He killed— _hundreds_. Turned them into charred bones and ash."

Alphonse made a strangled noise. Roy's jaw clenched at this reminder. Ed just pushed him back, trying to put space between him and the man who had every right to be furious. "You can't!" he repeated. "There's—there's other things to consider now—there's something _big_ going on, and you can't—"

"Ed—" Roy tried to move him aside, but it was like pushing a boulder. Ed just pressed back against him, determined to be a human shield. _This man is right_ , part of him wanted to say. _You shouldn't waste your compassion on someone like me_.

"Scar—" Al put a hand on the Ishvalan's arm. "Scar, please. The homunculi are here and they're trying to kill him—you'd be helping _them_."

Scar _seethed_. For a moment it looked like he might kill them all, enemies and allies alike. Then his hand shot out and grabbed the collar around Ed's neck. Ed yelped and flung himself back as red light flared, and in an instant the collar burst into pieces.

Roy whipped his arm around Ed's shoulders and yanked him back. They stumbled against the wall, and only the fact that Ed was still alive and cursing kept him from turning this man into a charred corpse. His thumb twitched against his fingers, the transmutation a mere thought away, but he held himself in check.

The Ishvalan stared him down as fragments of metal fell from his hand. The threat was clear: that could have just as easily been one of them. "We will deal with the homunculi— _first_." He turned and stocked toward the town square.

"Fucking—could have _warned me_!" Ed shot after him.

Roy's heart was pounding, and his hand refused to unclench as his eyes followed the scarred man. That was him. The alchemist killer. The one who had purportedly killed more than a dozen state alchemists by tearing them apart from the inside. Investigations had lost his trail several months ago when the murders had suddenly stopped. To come face to face with him, here—

He was still holding Ed against him. Shards of the collar pelted his hand as the young man brushed off his neck and shoulders. Roy turned his hand over to catch a few of the pieces, staring at the all-too-familiar jagged edges of the metal, clear indications of a transmutation. "That . . . should not have worked." The collars disrupted alchemy; he'd had a demonstration of them himself when he'd first joined the military.

"Well—what Scar does works differently." Ed pulled away to shake debris out of his hair, then started for the town square. " _Augh_ , fuck! C'mon; the tunnel starts under the chapel."

The armor was staring at him. The immobile helm was impossible to read, but the body language was tense. Not quite hostile, but far from friendly.

Roy waited. The day was turing into one threat after another, and the last thing he wanted to do was misstep and create yet another enemy.

Al waited until his brother was out of earshot. "You _did_ touch him," he said, his voice dangerously level. "He said you hadn't, but you did."

Roy couldn't tell if the tone held a threat or not. "Alphonse, isn't it?" The helm moved in the slightest nod. "I know we don't have much reason to trust each other, but please know I have never meant your brother harm."

The statement hung in the air between them. He knew the boy was trying to judge it's truthfulness; if only he could offer something more reassuring. Circumstances being what they are, he was fortunate to be able to say that much without lying.

The armor clanked as Alphonse shifted, then finally turned to follow Ed. "We'll see."

Roy let out his breath, and pulled himself away from the wall.

Ed was scratching a diagram into the dirt just off of the entryway with the point of his blade, muttering to himself. Al knelt down beside him, pointing out something he'd evidently gotten wrong. Scar was nowhere in sight.

"Lust said they'd been looking for you," Roy said once again, looked between the brothers. "Envy told you to 'stop interfering.' What is your history with these—these _creatures_?"

Ed glanced up at him. "You think I fucking know what their deal is? I told you, they just _show up_. Whenever we seem to get close—"

Al put a hand on his brother's shoulder.

" _Damn_ it—" the colonel snapped. "I _don't care_ what—what _questionably legal_ things the two of you might have done in the past! I have _at least_ four men down, and I have _gambled_ that we can draw those things out here without endangering anyone further. I need to know what I'm dealing with if we're to have even a _chance_ of getting through this!"

Ed was staring at him, the tip of his automail blade braced against the ground. He turned and shared a long look with Alphonse. Unlike the armor, he was painfully transparent; he _wanted_ to talk, but was asking permission first. Roy got the impression that he didn't care so much about his own skin, but he wasn't about to put his younger brother at risk.

Alphonse sighed, or mimicked a sigh, and stood. "We've—we've been searching for something for several years. It's . . . searching for it has . . . taken us to a lot of dark corners that . . . other people would rather stay dark. There's been a few times when we seemed to get close, or close to a piece, and then—" he gestured back toward the base.

"They've gotten in our way, messed things up," Ed added. "But a couple times, _we_ got in _their_ way. We didn't even really mean to, we just keep ending up in the same place and then they go and pull _this_ kind of shit."

"And you couldn't just stand by," Roy finished for him. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. Certain things were starting to fall into place, and he really didn't like the picture that was forming. "This mysterious 'something' you've been searching for—it wouldn't happen to be the Philosopher's Stone, would it?"

Ed turned scarlet. Roy let out a weary chuckle; for someone with so many secrets, he really needed to work on his poker face.

"Luckily for you, the Philosopher's Stone _doesn't exist_ , so there's nothing I could arrest you for, _is there_." Was a government-sanctioned lie less of a lie? If he could use it to his advantage, right now he didn't care. "Is that what they want, then?"

"Whatever it is _they_ want, it's not that simple," Al said. "But it is tied to the Stone— _they_ are tied to the Stone."

"Is that this 'energy source' you said they're formed around?"

"Um. Kind of," Ed acknowledged as he pushed himself to his feet. "And that's why they, uh. You know. Don't die."

"Hey now, we can't have you giving away _all_ our secrets, pipsqueak." The voice was coming from the roof of a nearby building and Roy whipped around, fingers ready to snap. "Been meaning to ask you—" Envy gestured to an enormous statue that seemed to be growing out of the façade of the chapel. "This your handiwork? Can't say much for your taste."

Ed had sprinted across the alley and vaulted up some stonework before the homunculus finished talking. "That's—" He leapt onto the roof and lunged at Envy blade first. "— _five_ times!"

"Woah! What?" Envy sprang back. "What are you on about, pipsqueak?"

" _Six_!"

"Oh for—" Envy continued to dance out of the way of Ed's relentless blade. "We didn't come here to _fight_ you—"

As compelling and entertaining as Roy was finding this, one homunculus finding them meant the other two couldn't be far behind. He tore his eyes away from the spectacle and scanned the town square, looking for any patch of black against the stone and sand.

Al grabbed his arm. "Sir, there. Off the southeast side of the chapel." He pointed.

"What—?"

"That's where we need them. That's the part of the tunnel we need."

Any further explanation was cut off when the wall of a building across the square burst apart. Scar rushed out of the dust cloud, followed closely by Gluttony, the homunculus still crackling and sparking with regeneration.

Lust stepped out behind the rotund homunculus. "My my, if it isn't our alchemist killer. This is turning into quite the party."

"Can I _eat_ him?"

The hand the woman put on the creature's head was almost affectionate. "Yes, you may eat this one."

Gluttony grinned, all but squealing in glee as he charged.

Scar scrambled to the side and grabbed Gluttony's head. The homunculus burst internally, blood pouring out of his mouth and ears, but this gave the Ishvalan no more than a second to get away before the creature regenerated and lunged for him again.

Roy—hesitated, and hated himself for hesitating, but tactically he wasn't sure he should tip his hand just yet, not to aid a man who clearly wanted him dead.

Alphonse had no such dilemma—he dashed across the square, skidding to a stop only when Lust's lances shot out to intercept him. The boy dodged, but one lance skewered his arm, piercing right through the metal.

"We really aren't here to fight with you," she insisted. "But we can't have you fouling things up—"

Roy engulfed the woman in the hottest flame he could produce.

This was enough of a distraction to give Scar the upper hand, at least for the moment. There was enough distance between him and his opponent that Roy could use a small, targeted fire. He couldn't incinerate Gluttony without risking injuring the Ishvalan—Scar may wish him harm, and a small, bitter part of him may be tempted to address that with a little friendly-fire incident, but that wasn't how he operated.

Movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him just a second too late. He jerked back, but not quickly enough to keep Envy from barreling into him. The blow caught his injured shoulder; the pain dazed him enough that a second blow struck him unprepared in the gut. The next thing he knew he was on the ground gasping for breath, with an enormous weight pinning him down.

"You know what? I think we won't kill you after all." Envy grabbed his gloved hand in a crushing grip, his other hand extending into razor-sharp claws that curled around his face. "I think we're going to _use_ you." In a panic Roy struck and beat with his free hand but the homunculus was unfazed. The claws dug in, leaving stinging tracks in the man's forehead and cheek. "But _first_ I'm going to take your eyes—maybe then you'll be less _annoying_ —"

A stone fist shot up from the ground over his head and struck Envy squarely in the chest. Roy kicked and scrabbled until he could squirm out from under the homunculus and roll to one side. He snapped, his hand throbbing, the flames singing the edges of his uniform.

Ed grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. "Shit! You okay? The fucker got away from me!"

"I'm fine." His hand was badly bruised, his ribs felt like he'd been under the wheel of a car, and he had several new cuts and contusions, but none of it serious enough to bother with now. "We need to end this."

"Come on."

As the young man turned to run Roy caught sight of a stream of blood down one side of his face.

He caught up to him at the far corner of the chapel. "You're injured—"

"It's nothing. Envy caught me by surprise. AL!"

That side of the square was all but destroyed. Alphonse and Scar seemed to be holding their own, but barely. At his brother's signal Al broke off and sketched an array, transmuting the ground the same way he had at the base.

This time Lust was ready for it. She shot several lances, gouging out the array and forcing the boy back. Roy snapped, trying to split his attention and his flames between her and the regenerating Envy.

The ground beneath him rippled and surged forward, sending him flailing for balance and landing him flat on his ass. Beside him Ed knelt with his hand on the ground, energy streaming out before him. Roy scrabbled back as the ground rose up in series of giant hands, snatching at the homunculi and dragging them under the suddenly animated earth.

"They weren't over the reservoir yet!" Alphonse called.

" _I know_!" Ed brought his hands together then slapped one to the ground, grimacing in concentration as a new burst of energy crackled through the stone and sand. "I just need—to keep them under—and— _ergh_ —to _move them_ —"

The armor had sprinted over and was now scribing and array next to his brother, quickly adding his own transmutation to whatever was going on underground. It was only then that Roy realized—the ground beneath Ed's hand was unmarked.

And then—stillness. Roy held his breath, waiting for the stone to crack open or to start buckling or for some new threat to emerge.

Ed groaned and collapsed forward onto the rock and sand.

"Showoff," Al admonished. "You wore yourself out, didn't you?"

Ed's answer was another theatrical moan.

Roy stared at the brothers, trying to process everything he'd just seen. Just what _were_ these two? They were easily better than most state-level alchemists, and they weren't even old enough to enlist. On top of that, the younger brother was an animated suit of armor—and the elder appeared to do alchemy without an array.

Alphonse picked his brother up by the scruff like a kitten. "We're not done yet, idiot. And you're _bleeding_. Don't lie on the ground while you're bleeding." He set Ed on his feet and then turned to Roy, who pushed himself up before the armor could take the liberty. "You're bleeding too, _Colonel."

Along with the cuts on his face, the wound on his arm had reopened, but the bleeding was sluggish. "It'll keep. Let's finish this."

"We should hurry."

This came from Scar. He was standing several feet behind Al and looking the worse for wear. He glared at Roy, his right hand twitching as if he was imagining it wrapped around the other man's neck.

For a moment he regretted not "accidentally" incapacitating the Ishvalan while he had the chance. Most of his fellow soldiers would have taken the opportunity, some without a second thought. Many of his superiors would scold him for lack of judgement and poor strategizing.

Roy loathed himself for the temptation alone.

But that didn't mean he was stupid enough to turn his back. He followed the Elrics into the chapel with one eye always on the Ishvalan and his fingers poised to snap.

"I didn't just dump them in the tunnel, I'm not that stupid," Ed was saying. Al had paused just long enough to light a lantern before they descended a rubble-strewn stairway.

Roy shot a look at the debris and the cracked walls and ceiling. "This looks like it could collapse at any moment."

"That's why no one's been in here for months," Al called back. "Hurry up—they're probably digging their way out already."

The stairs wound around, the air growing cooler as they made their way underground. Roy paused to take in the large cellar. It was empty, and unremarkable except for the flat, black expanse of water that stretched out past the illumination of Al's lamp.

"Careful, the water's toxic," Ed cautioned.

Roy edged closer and tried to peer through the darkness. "How far does it extend?" This might explain the warnings they'd had about the groundwater from certain parts of the city.

"Dunno. A ways." Ed pointed to a suspicious bulge at the edge of the ceiling. "See, I told you I got them in the right spot!"

Al huffed. "Barely."

"It's far _enough_. Now we just need to seal off this side and—"

All at once the walls and ceiling cracked and burst. Al grabbed him and yanked him clear just as the stone above the reservoir collapsed. Roy found himself squished next to Ed under the protective embrace of the armor as what seemed like half the chapel and courtyard rained down around them.

" _Scar_!!" Al was the only one of them not coughing and choking on rock dust. "What are you _doing_??"

"Sealing it off. You were taking too long."

Roy pulled the collar of his uniform over his nose and mouth. Without thinking he had clutched Ed against his chest, as if he could add to the protection Alphonse was providing. Ed shifted under his arm, trying to curse through his coughs, and loosened his grip on Roy's jacket. His automail blade had been pressed against the back of his shoulder, dangerously close to cutting in. He pulled his arms down now and twisted, bringing his hands together. Energy crackled into the air from that point, and in its wake the dust clumped and fell, pelting them with a brief hail of pebbles but enabling them to breath.

" _What the fuck_?!" Al caught his brother before he could leap on Scar. "Are you trying to fucking _kill us_?"

The Ishvalan ignored the ire. The look he was giving Roy said that he had indeed been hoping to kill one of them in particular.

* * *

Roy sank down onto what remained of the stairs. For the moment, no one was trying to kill him. Something of a novelty for this day.

Miraculously, the lantern had survived the cave-in, giving them a decent view of the damage in the immediate area. Along with the wall of rubble that had once been the reservoir, part of the stairway had collapsed, and from the look of the debris so had a good portion of the rooms above. For the time being it seemed like he was stuck here, but that was only one concern of many.

On the far side of the room the others were arguing, if one could call it that. Mostly Ed it was yelling and Al trying to modulate, with Scar staying silent.

Well, he'd identified their alchemist. Two of them. Regulations demanded he turn them over to the state. He'd witnessed more than enough to incriminate both of them.

The thought made his stomach turn. Ed would do more than chafe under that kind of restriction; it would be like trying to smother a live warhead with a pillow. No one would come out unscathed, and that brilliant, dangerous, maddening and compelling burst of life—might end up damaged for good.

As for his brother—Roy still didn't know enough to make that call. He didn't even know just what Alphonse Elric _was_.

Such things shouldn't matter to him. As a soldier, as a commander, he should do his duty and follow the regulations without question. Maintain order within the country. To do otherwise would be as good as placing himself in front of a firing squad.

The sound quality in the room changed, and his guard went up. Without turning, he could make out a second lantern and a rectangle of light that indicated a doorway at the back of the room.

"I don't like this," a new voice was saying. "What'd you go and bring the _military_ down here for."

"We didn't have much choice, we were being attacked," Ed explained.

"Still didn't need to bring him down here."

"Coulda let them have 'im," another piped up. "Military wouldn't've noticed one more dead."

" _I am not going to KILL ANYONE_!" Ed's tone was of someone who'd been over this before. "If you don't fucking _get that_ then you better step the fuck back because—"

Ed's rant cut off so abruptly that Roy finally turned to see what was going on. A young woman was standing between Ed and the small clump of locals, shaking her head. The townsfolk deferred to her and backed off, though not without some dark looks thrown in Roy's direction.

The young woman turned to Ed, and seemed to want to say something. After a moment she brushed a finger against his bruised neck and darted a look to Roy.

"I'm fine, Rosé. Really." Ed took her hand and said something too soft for Roy to hear. All he could make out was "—not that kind."

She hesitated a moment more, as if searching for words, then shook her head. She pulled out a bit of cloth to press against the gash in Ed's forehead, ignoring his grumbled protests.

"Rosé was the _last_ commander's hostage," Al told him in a low voice as the woman tended to his brother.

Roy grimaced at the weight in the young man's voice. He wasn't sure how to respond to that, or if he should. The treatment of hostages was questionable at the best of times, but Hakuro had a reputation for unpleasantness even among his peers.

Rosé must have been quick with the bandaging, because soon Ed was picking his way across the rubble and dropping down on the step beside him. "You're still bleeding, idiot."

Roy glanced down at his arm. He'd managed to keep his glove clean this time, but much of his sleeve was a sticky, black mess. "So I am."

He winced as Ed yanked the fabric away from the wound. "Shit, you've popped like half the stitches. Fuckin' Envy." He pressed a wad of gauze against it and fumbled with another strip to secure it. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten rid of the blade, and now his arm looked like nothing more than a standard piece of automail. "It's gonna leave a scar now. I mean, a worse scar."

"Mm. It wouldn't be my first."

Rosé had followed Ed over and stood about ten feet away, watching. He could see now that the bundle she carried in a sling against her chest was an infant. She soothed it as it fussed, never taking her eyes off the man in the military uniform. Al moved to stand beside her. A tiny bit of the tension eased from her stance, but her face remained a tight-jawed mix of fear and distaste.

Ed chewed his lip as he wrapped and rewrapped and finally tied off the bandage. His look of concentration charming but Roy prudently kept that to himself. "There. At least now you're not bleeding everywhere."

"You're one to talk."

Ed grinned. "By my count, you've got more cuts than me." He wet a rag from a small canteen and pressed it to one of the scratches on Roy's cheek. "Stop squirming, wuss."

Roy glared. A small flinch was _not_ "squirming." The damn thing _stung_.

Ed's expression sobered as he dabbed at the wounds. "Look . . . I don't think this is the end of it. Whatever they wanted here, it was part of something bigger—we just have no fucking clue what that is. But that means it's not gonna end here."

"Well," he mused, "if part of what they wanted was me out of the way, they got that, in a sense. I trust my team to keep control for the time being, but once Archer gets here things'll be . . . more difficult."

"Who is this Archer guy?"

Roy took a moment before replying. "He's . . . one of the bad ones."

The brothers locked eyes. Finally Ed sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair and sitting back.

"Hey—uh . . . speaking of the military . . . and the homunculi. . . ."

Roy waited.

"Um . . . you ever hear about this abandoned research lab in Central? One that . . . kinda . . . blew up last year?"

His eyebrows had to be close to his hairline. "The fifth laboratory? That— _incident_ —was you?"

"We didn't blow it up!" Ed insisted. "Honest!"

"But we were there," Al clarified.

"You broke in," Roy guessed.

"The _point_ is what we found before it blew," Ed continued. "Look, it wasn't abandoned! At _all_! That's where the military did all the experiments they didn't want anyone to know about. Chimaera, soul-bonds—and something _big_ —"

"'Soul-bonds'?"

Ed stared long and hard at his brother, only continuing after he received a slight nod. "I did that . . . Al . . . because—because if I hadn't I would've lost him completely. But it's a _horrible_ way to live. We've spent the last four years looking for a way to undo it." He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, suddenly looking much younger than his fifteen years. "But the military—they did it just 'cause they wanted guards. Guards who don't need to eat or sleep and don't feel pain. They took death row inmates, wrote on the record that they were executed, and ripped their souls from their bodies and stuck them into suits of armor. Didn't exactly give them a choice about it, either."

"We met two," Al added. "Number Sixty-six was Barry the Chopper. And Number Forty-eight—the Slicer Brothers."

Barry the Chopper, the Slicer—both high-profile serial killers. But—"'Brothers'?"

"Yeah, 'the Slicer' was actually a pair of brothers," Ed explained. "Military took them both and bound 'em to the same suit of armor, one to the helm and one to the torso. But that was just the guards—that's just what they did to keep people from finding the real experiments. Stuff like chimaera—and they didn't use prisoners for that. They took soldiers—ones who'd been badly wounded on the battlefield. Write 'em off as dead and take them to Lab Five instead of the hospital, then merge them with some animal or another."

" _What_ —?"

"But there was something else being done there, too," Ed continued before Roy could process what he'd just heard. He picked up a sharp rock and started to scratch something into the floor. "The room were I fought the Slicer Brothers had this big array. They said they'd tell me what it was if I could beat them, but. . . ."

"You couldn't beat them?"

"I _beat_ them." Ed's glare was full of wounded pride. He jabbed a finger at the cave-in. " _Those_ three fuckers showed up and—and _killed_ the Slicer Brothers before they could tell me anything. And then Barry the Chopper triggered the explosives . . . I don't really remember what happened after that. But _this_ —" he finished up the array, "—whatever _this_ is is big enough that they had two soul-bound guards and a bunch of bombs to keep anyone from finding it, and the homunculi did _not_ want me to know what it was."

The array looked simple: a pentagon inside a circle, with a node at each point of intersection. Roy tried to remember if he'd ever come across a five-sided design in any of his studies but came up blank. "Five ingredients . . . or five points of energy. No idea what it was for?"

"Well . . . we _think_ it has something to do with the Philosopher's Stone. We haven't had much chance to look into it since."

Roy rubbed his forehead. "You do realize . . . that I should be arresting you about five times over by now."

Ed's grin looked a bit sheepish. "Eh . . . Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

He snorted. "All right; the crux of what you're telling me is that the military has been performing secret experiments involving human transmutation, often on its own soldiers. That's a lot to take on the word of two teenagers who haven't _exactly_ been model citizens."

"If we _had_ been living within the rules we wouldn't've found _any_ of this."

"A valid point, but it still doesn't speak to your credibility."

"And whatever they're doing, the homunculi are involved. Envy gloated about how easily the war in Ishval got started. He all but came out and said that he's the one who started it. And now they show up here and try to get rid of you—"

"They were also looking for the two of you," Roy reminded them. "But they did state pretty plainly that my presence here was interfering with something."

He traced the array with a finger. He didn't want to believe any of this. He wanted to believe that the military might have some people with questionable morals at the top but still had a strong foundation. He wanted to believe that this was still a mess that could be fixed.

He sighed. "The official stance on the Philosopher's Stone is that it doesn't exist. But. . . ." The part of him still clinging to rules and regulations was appalled at what he was about to say, especially to two rogue alchemists who were ostensively his enemy. But his instincts were telling him the gamble was worth taking. "I could get court-martialed for telling you this, but during Ishval we had . . . our superiors called them 'experimental substances.' Small red stones that enhanced our alchemy."

Ed gasped. "You had—didn't you want to know where they _came from_?"

"Of course I did. But everything about them was 'classified.' I was only a major then, and you didn't get too nosy—not if you valued your hide. Even now as a colonel I can't find anything acknowledging their existence, let alone information about what they were. This array and what you've told me are the first clues I've had."

And to think, that morning his biggest concern had been finding out more about the young man sitting next to him.

Roy let his gaze drift over to the door at the other side of the room. Two men glared at him from either side of the doorway, makeshift weapons at hand. Scar seemed to have vanished. "Well . . . it appears I've discovered why we couldn't find the townsfolk."

"Um. . . ." Ed scratched the back of his head. "About that. . . . The only way out is through these tunnels now, and . . . I'm not sure everyone's gonna be real keen on letting you through. . . ."

"In other words, I might be here for a while." He rubbed his eyes. This was shaping up to be a very long day. "Wonderful."


	10. Chapter 9: Impending Blaze

Ed tossed the POW clothes into a pile for rags. The simple shirt and trousers worn by most everyone here might not have been his preference, but at least it was real, decent clothing. And _shoes_. It was as if the army thought that if they didn't give their prisoners decent footwear the prisoners wouldn't run. He pulled on his boots—the only part of his old outfit that hadn't gotten chucked as impractical for desert heat—and hopped to his feet, enjoying the feel of having thick rubber soles under his feet again.

Further down the tunnel people were still arguing over what to do with Mustang. Ed thought it might be time for him to put in his own two cenz again—sure, Mustang was military, but he wasn't the _bad_ kind. Holding him accountable for things done by that Hack-row asshole wouldn't be equivalent. That much should be fucking obvious.

Al's gauntlet landed on his shoulder and he jumped. "Brother. Did you even stop to think, or did you just let him seduce you?"

Ed's gulped-in air sounded suspiciously like a squeak.

"He was probably trying to get you to let your guard down, you know," Al went on. "So what was it? Did he promise you something? Or did he just talk nice and—"

"AL!" Ed knocked his hand off and whipped around. "Wh-what are you talking about? There wasn't—it wasn't—I mean—" Shit, he was probably _crimson_. Damn his capillaries.

" _Shh_!" Al picked him up and moved down the tunnel, away from the others. "Keep your voice down, idiot.

"Put me _down_!" Ed kicked at his brother and twisted free. "You're picking up some _really_ bad habits."

"I _know_ he touched you, Brother, so don't even bother trying to tell me nothing happened. I'm just trying to understand why you would _let_ him."

"Fuck, Al!" he hissed. There was nothing quite so embarrassing as having a little brother who was downright psychic when it came to your sex life. "He never hurt me, all right? It wasn't—it wasn't _like_ that!"

"You think I don't know that?" Al snapped back. "Do you think I'd be in here talking to you instead of—of _dealing_ with him if I thought he had? If I thought he'd done even a _tenth_ of—of what—"

"Fuck, Al. . . ." A chill went down his spine.

"I just want to know how much of an _idiot_ you were. Did you even stop to think that—that he might have some _agenda_? Some _reason_ for trying to get in your pants? Or were you just so _flattered_ that you—"

Ed knocked his helm off.

"Of _course_ I fucking thought of that," he growled. "Of _course_ he had a fucking agenda _everything_ he does has a fucking agenda he's a fucking _military commander_!" Ed breathed in, unclenched his jaw. "Well, maybe I had an agenda, too. Maybe _I_ was the one trying to get to _him_. Ever think of _that_?"

Al picked up the helm and very deliberately set it in place. "You're an _idiot_."

"Why the _hell_ are you fixating on _this_ when we've got _homunculi_ after us and we _don't even fucking know why_?"

Ed spun on his heel and stocked away. Stocked past the men and women still arguing at the entrance. Stocked into the ruined basement.

How could he explain it to his brother—that maybe at the beginning they had both had ulterior motives, but by the end it hadn't been like that. Maybe he was just being naïve, but he couldn't shake the feeling that . . . it hadn't been like that for either one of them. Not in that moment. Resting there against Mustang's chest, being held like—like he actually _meant_ something—

Al would tell him he'd been an idiot.

Maybe he had been.

Mustang raised his head from where he was lying back on the stairs. "From the look on your face, I'd say there'd been trouble," he said as Ed got close.

"No. Al's just a moron."

"Ah." He lowered his head and went back to staring up at what was left of the ceiling. It looked like a terribly uncomfortable bed. "You and your brother are quite close, aren't you."

"Yeah, I guess." Ed kicked a bit of rubble out of the way and dropped down on the foot of the stairs. "Yeah," he said with a bit less ire. "We are. It's just me and him, so we look out for each other." Under his breath he added, "Doesn't mean he's not a moron sometimes."

He chuckled. "Indeed. I have no siblings myself, but . . . I can sympathize with the sentiment." Mustang was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I can only imagine what you must have risked to bind his soul like that."

Ed cleared his throat, studying the floor. Despite what Al seemed to think, he wasn't stupid. He knew Mustang was fishing. But he'd already given the soldier enough rope to hang him and then some. At this point, he didn't really see how anything he said could do any _more_ harm. "Cost me an arm."

Mustang raised his head.

He coughed again, fiddling with his automail hand. "When . . . when you do that sort of thing, it . . . kinda rebounds. It eats up a piece of you. I lost my arm binding his soul. I lost my _leg_ right before that, doing the thing that hurt Al to begin with. _He_ lost a lot more."

"That must have been horrific."

"Yeah. . . ." He scuffed his boot against the floor. "'Cept, I didn't care about my arm, 'cause it was for Al. But thinking about it . . . I can't really see some guy on the military's payroll giving up a hunk or two of his body just to make some tin can watchdogs."

"Nor can I." He let his head drop back with a sigh. "I suppose those red stones had to have gone somewhere after the war."

Ed stared down at the array he had scratched into the floor. It burned him that the thing they had spent so much time and energy searching for had been in the hands of the military all along. Maybe if he'd sucked it up and taken the state test to begin with, they wouldn't still be in this mess.

He kicked a piece of rubble and watched it ricochet.

More than likely, he would have been sent here as the military's dog and been ordered to kill the people he was currently helping, and would not have been any closer to his goal.

Ed yanked his hair free of the bit of string and combed his fingers through it. To think that just last night his hair had been clean for the first time in weeks, and now it was full of sand and rock dust and bits of metal and no small amount of blood. He tried to scrape the worst of it off with his fingernails, but soon gave up and pulled the whole mess, dried blood and all, back into a braid. Something he could normally do without thinking, but right now his hand was being uncooperative.

"How long ago did you lose your arm and leg?"

"Wha— _ow_ fuck." His concentration broke and his fingers clenched. He tried to jerk the hand away and found the joints snarled in his hair. "Fuckin—shit."

"Hold on, hold on." Mustang sat up and reached over, steadying the metal hand and working the strands free. "It would be a tragedy to damage such beautiful hair."

Ed snickered, trying not to inadvertently rip out his hair. "Are you just naturally that sappy? Or have you been making a special effort?"

He affected a put-upon sigh. "Romance is so undervalued. There—" He pulled the metal hand away and smoothed down Ed's hair. "Tragedy averted."

Ed made a face as he picked strands of hair out of his automail. "Told you the calibration was off."

"Could you use some help?"

"I, um." Ed stared down at his hands. A large part of him—very large—did want to feel Mustang's fingers in his hair again. But now was not the time. "I got it. Just, um. Don't distract me."

He did his best to ignore the man sitting just a few steps up, did his best to ignore the blush he knew was coloring his cheeks. By staring fixedly at the ground, he managed to get his hair braided without incident.

"I was eleven," he said as he tied off the braid. "For the record."

"Eleven years old. . . ." he mused. "I asked because you're obviously very comfortable with the automail. I wondered how long you'd had it."

"It helps that I have an amazing mechanic who makes some of the best stuff there is."

They fell silent. Ed slid a piece of debris under his boot.

Mustang was frowning at the cave-in. "Shouldn't someone be watching topside to make sure those creatures don't claw their way out?"

Ed slid the debris chunk, making long scratches in the floor. "Scar was heading up there—I think. He didn't say much."

"Hmm."

Ed gouged out another set of scratches.

"Why here?" Mustang muttered. "This area is tactically useless. It poses little threat to the rest of the country, and has no natural resources that could be exploited. What could they hope to gain by starting a war here?"

"Beats me," Ed said bitterly. "For a while it seemed like the whole point was to kill people. They weren't even taking ground or—or _anything_ , they were just killing people."

Something flickered across the soldier's face. At first Ed thought it might be resentment at the accusation, but then he said, "Those were our orders during Ishval."

"What—?"

"Almost verbatim." He sighed. "When the State Alchemists were brought in, it was as part of an all-out genocidal campaign. No matter how many died, our superiors always pushed for more." His mouth was a hard line. "For what we did there, your scarred friend has every right to despise me and everyone else who was on that battlefield."

Ed gaped at him. He'd heard stories about the Ishval war, everyone who lived in the eastern district had, but this—this sounded like a massacre.

"And it all begs the question of _why_ ," Mustang continued. "Ishval never needed to escalate that far. And if Parliament hadn't overridden the Fuhrer this time we would most likely be looking at the same thing again. If those monsters are fueling fires such as these— _why_? What do they hope to gain?"

Ed ground the debris under his foot. "What about your superiors?" he hazarded. "The ones ordering you to kill everyone? What are _they_ in it for? And who's the one giving _them_ the orders? The Fuhrer? What does _he_ hope to gain?"

"Not so long ago, I thought I knew." He sighed again. "Men have such simple desires. They dress it up with pretty words, but it all comes down to the same, simple motivations. That was the world I saw." Mustang leaned against his folded hands, brooding on the cave-in. "And I made the mistake of assuming that was all there was. But I'm dealing with more than mankind now, aren't I? At this point . . . I'm not sure I can assume anything."

* * *

Roy was exhausted, but he slept poorly. Ed had gotten him a couple of blankets and had cleared some space for him on the floor (with his clap-and-slap array-less alchemy—Roy was itching to ask about that), and while it wasn't the most comfortable bed, but he'd slept in worse conditions.

Every time he closed his eyes images from the day would play across his eyelids. Hawkeye impaled by Ed's blade and then melting into Envy. Havoc at the mercy of Lust's lances. A charred homunculi corpse reforming itself. In the rare moments he did fall asleep these images solidified and melded with the Ishvalan desert, faceless generals shouting at him to follow orders, his flames burning out of control as he saw just an instant too late that the youth facing him had _gold_ eyes—

Roy jerked awake, a cry stopped up in his throat and his hands scrabbling for the gloves he always kept under his pillow.

"You're still wearing it."

Roy stilled, conscious thought returning in stages.

The homunculi.

Scar.

The cave-in under the chapel.

Most of the tension drained out of him with a sigh, and he slumped back onto the makeshift bed. A quick tug at his left hand assured him that what Alphonse said was true.

Which brought up the other reason he might be having trouble sleeping: the hulking suit of armor sitting not five feet away.

"Alphonse, do you . . . sleep at _all_?"

"No." The armor turned a page of his book. "No body to need it, I guess."

"Oh."

It would probably be pushing his luck to ask just what had happened to Alphonse Elric's body. Ed's description had been intriguing but cryptic. What kind of alchemy ate pieces of the alchemist's body?

"Normally I sit with my brother. He's used to me being up all night."

"Mm." Roy didn't bother to ask why he was here playing guard instead, or why Ed was deeper in the tunnels with the Lioreians. But he was missing having the young man across the room. Ed had been his hostage for so brief a time, and yet not having him there seemed wrong somehow. "Just out of curiosity—does Ed know he talks in his sleep?"

The startled sound the armored boy made might have been a laugh. "I've told him, but he won't believe me. He insists I'm making it up."

Roy chuckled.

He turned to the wall. He knew he needed to rest, but after that last dream he had no desire to go back to sleep.

He could feel the armor's eyes on him.

"Sir, what do you . . . what do you plan to do now that you know where the people of this town are?"

Roy sighed. "Of all the revelations I've been faced with lately, that has been _least_ on my mind."

He could guess what the Fuhrer and the Top Brass would order him to do, and the thought turned his stomach. He would _not_ see this become another Ishval. If what he'd learned the day before was even close to true, the military already had more than enough to answer for.

That left him with figuring out just how he would get those answers without landing himself in front of a firing squad—or placing anyone else there.

These thoughts continued to chase through his mind as he drifted in and out of a doze. Fractured images of Ed before a panel of generals took up where conscious thought left off.

Roy woke from the uneasy rest to the sound of excited voices carrying down the tunnel. He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Issat morning?"

"We don't have clocks down here, Colonel," Alphonse pointed out. "But I think so."

Ed's mismatched footsteps announced him before he came into sight, the clunky black work boots he'd donned the day before echoing off the tunnel walls. He paused in the doorway, one hand in his hair and a shit-eating grin on his face. "Hey, uh— _hypothetically_ —how pissed would you be about suddenly losing _every_ POW?"

Roy stared at him. It was far too early, and he'd gotten far too little sleep for this.

"Just . . . wondering." Ed scratched the back of his head. "Oh, and they're saying some trucks just arrived. Like three of them."

"Archer," Roy groaned into his hands. "This is sooner than Hughes said."

"Archer the pale guy who looks like a snake? 'Cause that's who they said is giving everyone orders."

He snorted. "That sounds right." He shoved his fingers through his hair. "Let me guess: you used the disruption to break into the POW camp."

"It wasn't _me_ , but—" Ed coughed. "More or less."

"Well. . . ." Al offered. "To be fair, Brother, we _did_ help set it up. We've been working on that for a while," he explained for Roy's benefit. "The sticking point was getting into the camp and getting it done without getting caught."

"You better hope you succeeded in that last part," Roy told them. "You do _not_ want Archer to find these tunnels."

"Most people here think _you're_ gonna lead the army down here as soon as you get back up to the surface." The look on Ed's face challenged him to either confirm or deny it.

Roy climbed to his feet, making a half-hearted attempt at straightening out his uniform. "If any general in Central got wind of this, those would be my orders."

He looked down at the two young men who had so thoroughly turned his world on its head in so short a time. Alphonse was as unreadable as ever, but Ed looked like he still thought Roy might have some integrity. Roy wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"However," he continued, eyes locked with his former hostage, "I'm here on the orders of Parliament. They made it clear that my priority should be to suppress the outbreak and keep it from getting out of hand—with a _minimal_ loss of life."

Ed apparently found that satisfactory, because he gave him a lopsided grin and said as he rubbed his nose, "So, then—not _too_ pissed about the POWs? 'Cause I don't think you're getting them back."

He shook his head with a rueful smile. "I _should_ be pissed. It's going to be quite a headache explaining that."

"Well. You _did_ get attacked by monsters. I'm sure you could work that in somehow."

A boy of about eight came tearing down the tunnel toward them. He skidded to a stop behind Ed, grabbing onto his shirt and peering around at Roy with wide eyes.

"Michael?" Ed glanced under his arm at the child. "What is it?"

Michael did an impressive job of staying out of Roy's direct line of sight as Ed turned. He tugged on Ed's shirt and arm until he bent down to the child's level, then whispered something into his ear that made Ed gasp with alarm.

"What? _How_?"

Michael's face screwed up. "He—he just _said_ —"

Ed pasted on a smile and laid a hand on the child's head. "That's okay. I'll ask him. Thank you for coming to get me."

Al was already on his feet. "Brother? What's going on?"

"Scar's thinking doing something stupid. C'mon—you, too, Colonel."

"Me?" Roy hastened to catch up as the boy led the brothers up the tunnel. "I'm not sure why you think my presence would be any help."

"It's _your_ soldiers he's talking about wiping out."

" _What_?"

"Just come _on_." They broke into a run, leaving the older man hard pressed to keep up.

This was way too much to be expected to deal with before breakfast.

"Hey!" Ed called to the group just up the tunnel. "What the hell is going on? Where's Scar?"

"What is _he_ doing here?" One of the men moved to block Roy.

Al stepped between them. "Please! Just tell us what's happening."

"Scar said he'll get the army off our backs," a woman said. "What does it matter?"

"No, he said—" Michael piped up, "—he said they'll be _gone_ gone. I heard him!"

The woman looked away.

"I heard him! And Rosé—Rosé is _scared_. Because of what Scar said he'd do—" The boy clutched at Ed's arm. "Are more people gonna die? I don't want more people to die!"

Ed stroked his hair. "They won't if I have anything to say about it." He glared down everyone there until one of them finally pointed down a side tunnel. After convincing the child to stay behind, and he led the three of them down that way.

"What could he do?" Roy pressed. "He's dangerous, but he's only one man."

Ed shook his head. "I dunno—but that's what worries me. He's not one for making boasts like that."

Rosé met them partway down the tunnel. She was agitated, and seemed to be trying to say something.

"Rosé?" Ed paused in front of her. "What going on? Where's Scar?"

She gulped in air, clutching at her baby like a shield. Finally, with great effort, she produced a faint, hoarse sound: "S . . . stop. . . ."

Ed and Al both gasped.

" _Stop_ him—!" She screwed her eyes shut and ducked her head to the squirming bundle in her arms. "Stop him— _please_. He—said—he said before that no more had to die. He _said_ —those who've died already were—were enough. But—now— _now_ —"

"Enough . . . for _what_?" Al's voice was tiny, as if he was afraid of breaking whatever spell had given the young woman back her voice.

Rosé shook her head. "An array—I don't _know_ —he said no more had to die but now—" She gulped and sobbed. "He says he'll kill _everyone_! Every soldier in the city—f-f—f-fuel—for the array, he said—please! Please I just want the killing to stop—just make it stop!"

Ed started to reach out to her, but stopped short and pulled his hand back. "Rosé," he said, an eerie calm in his voice. "Where is he?"

Without raising her head she pointed to the end of the tunnel, to a flight of stairs that presumably lead to the surface. "Up there . . . heading—heading east. . . ."

Ed nodded. "All right. We'll take care of it."

The cold lump of dread that had lodged itself in Roy's stomach was steadily growing. He sprinted to catch up. "What array—what _is_ this?"

"Scar's brother left him a lot of notebooks full of research, of both our kind of alchemy and eastern alchemy," Al explained. "He must have found something in there—but I don't know! We've never seen them!"

"Eastern—you mean Xingese?"

"Yeah." Ed was wrestling with a door at the top of the stairs. "That's why his arm— _fuck_!" He threw his weight against the door, then stepped back and clapped. "He's fucking _blocked_ it somehow—"

"Brother, be _careful_ —"

"We don't have time for _careful_!" He slammed his palms against the door and it exploded outward.

" _Brother_!"

"I'll fix it I'll fix it come _on_ —"

They piled into what must have once been a café, but was now strewn with broken furniture and debris. It was hard to tell what damage Ed's hasty exit might have caused among all the other wreckage.

Once they were through, Ed turned and slapped a hand against what remained of the door, reforming it into a wall. It stood out against the destruction like a beacon, but it would have to do.

"If Archer's already here, it won't be long before he sends in a unit to do a sweep of the city," Roy said. "If they find the two of you—"

"If we don't get to Scar soon," Ed interrupted, "I have a feeling none of that will matter."

Something caught Roy's eye as they left the café: a deep, wide scratch gouged into the ground. It was partially obscured by sand and debris, but looked like it had been recently cleared off. "Ed!"

Ed skidded to a stop and turned back with a scowl, but when he caught sight of the gouge his face filled with alarm. "Shit—oh shit, oh shit—this can't be good—" He took off, leaving Roy once again sprinting to catch up.

Roy was in decent shape, but he soon fell behind. For someone with such short legs Ed was incredibly fast, and Alphonse was literally tireless. He almost lost them more than once in the city's twists and turns, and did lose them when he inevitably had to stop to catch his breath.

Ed's shout echoed through the deserted streets, jolting Roy back into motion. He honed in on the voice easily, and in a moment they were in view: Ed yelling, Al pleading, both of them demanding Scar stop whatever it was he was planning.

The Ishvalan stared them down, sweeping them aside like children. "Did you truly think the military would give up? Your way was only ever a stop-gap."

"And you think _killing_ everyone is the answer?" Ed grabbed his arm. "That really is all you are, isn't it? This isn't about protecting anyone—"

Scar shoved him away. "All they understand is death!"

Roy ran forward and put out a hand to keep Ed back. "You're right!" he said to the scarred man. "Death _is_ all they understand. And if you kill every man and woman here, what they will _understand_ is that they need to send in twice as many!"

Scar grabbed his throat. Roy's fingers primed to snap but he forced himself not to react. He heard both boys cry out, saw Alphonse grab Scar's arm, but he had to remain focused.

"Go ahead and kill me," he told him, his voice calm despite his racing heart and growing panic. "You'd be doing the generals a favor. Do you think there's not ten more waiting to take my place? And ten more after each of them? _Our_ lives mean little more to them than yours. They'll use your actions here as an excuse to hunt down you and every man, woman, and child from Liore no matter _how_ many get killed along the way."

Scar's hand shook, his fingers twitching as if they wanted nothing more than to crush his windpipe, or to blast him apart like he had so many other state alchemists.

"You won't be stopping anything," Roy pressed. "You'll only hasten this to an end worse than Ishval."

With snarl, Scar tossed him aside like a rag.

Ed caught him just before he hit the ground, cushioning his fall. Roy shook off his disorientation and pushed himself to his feet.

"It won't matter," Scar was saying. "The blood spilled here has already stained this land. I mean to turn that stain to my own use and pull it out of the military's grasp."

"Scar, what are you talking about?" Al pleaded. "What are you planning to do?"

"Nothing your military wasn't planning already." This was to Roy. "Anyone within the city will be used." He paused, glaring at the soldier as he fought an internal battle. "But not the military base," he ground out. "I was not able to extend the array that far."

"You mean if everyone stays on the base they'll be safe?" Ed said.

Roy grabbed Ed's shoulder before he could run off. "Get back underground. Both of you."

"But we need to—"

"Now!"

He shoved Ed away and turned to run back to the base himself. He couldn't be worrying about the young man right now, which meant he needed him as far away from the military as possible, and had to trust that the two of them would get out of range of whatever Scar was planning. As much as he wanted to make sure Ed was safe, he had a few hundred men and women who didn't even know they were in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the urge to call these chapters "Roy's terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad day(s)"


	11. Chapter 10: Down to Ash

Roy’s lungs were burning. His legs had nearly given out on him twice, but he couldn’t let himself rest. Not until he reached the base. The men and women there were his responsibility; their deaths would be on _his_ head.

Just when he thought he might collapse he spotted blue uniform against the city’s dun streets. Roy stumbled and caught himself against a wall, doubling over and bracing his hands against his knee. He was too short of breath to call out, but they soon spotted him and rushed over.

“Sir!” It seemed Breda was leading this unit, but three of the four soldiers with him were unfamiliar. “Sir, are you all right?”

“—out of the city—”

“Sir?”

Roy straightened up and tried again to fill his lungs. “Get everyone out of the city!”

the lieutenant hesitated. “Sir, we’ve had a breach at the prison camps. Lieutenant-Colonel Archer has ordered—”

“It’s booby-trapped!” He finally caught his breath, and put as much authority into his voice as he could. “The entire city is booby-trapped and everyone within its borders is in danger. I need everyone to head back to base immediately!”

Breda turned to one of the men, one he recognized from East. “Get to the radio and alert the units you can.”

As that man took off two of the others shared a look. “Lieutenant, Archer’s order’s were clear—” one of them started.

“I am overriding those orders,” Roy snapped. “We’re dealing with a powerful enemy with a history of violent murders and I am ordering everyone back to base _immediately_!”

They hesitated for much longer than they should have before turning. If Roy didn’t have more pressing matters to deal with he would cite them for improper conduct.

“How many units has Archer sent out?” Roy asked.

“Five so far,” Breda said as they picked up their pace. “Only two have a wireless. Sir, is this another one of those— _things_?”

He shook his head. “It’s the alchemist killer. The scarred man,” he explained. “We have to consider those creatures still a threat, but right now he’s the bigger danger.”

Breda looked at him in alarm. “The scarred man? Here?”

He nodded. “And he’s rigged the entire city with an array. One he could set off at any moment.”

Once they got to the base it was easy to follow the web of activity back to Archer. He stood at the north edge of the courtyard, organizing more teams of five to send into the city.

“Archer!” Roy called. “Recall your men to base!”

The lieutenant-colonel turned, disappointment coloring his pale features before he bothered to paste on a smile. “Colonel Mustang! How fortunate that you’ve managed to elude your abductors.”

“Pull back to base immediately!” he repeated. “The entire city is booby-trapped—”

“Really, now. By your own reports these booby-traps are laughable.” Archer turned away and signaled to the units to proceed.

“NO ONE IS TO LEAVE THE BASE!” Roy shouted, directing the imperative to everyone around. “THAT IS AN ORDER!”

The soldiers who knew him from East looked spooked and immediately held back; he rarely pulled authority so blatantly and they knew it meant trouble. Archer’s soldiers hesitated, looking back and forth between them—Roy had rank, but Archer was their commander. Many of those who’d been under Hakuro seemed split as well.

Archer turned an icy stare on Roy, his contempt only marginally veiled. “I have orders from the Fuhrer to clean up this mess you’ve made. If you’re thinking of overriding those orders, you’re going to have to come up with something better than _booby-traps_.”

“The city is a _death trap_. The scarred man—”

“ _The_ scarred man?” Archer interrupted. “The alchemist killer? Then the only one who should be in danger is _you_.” He turned away and reissued his order to move out, reminding everyone that he was acting on behalf of the highest authority in the country.

The entire base had gathered by this point, and Roy once more ordered everyone to stay put. Most did, probably more than half—but far too many went with Archer. Roy turned to his staff to get an accurate assessment.

“The two units with a wireless, units one and three, have been notified and are returning to base,” Hawkeye told him. “The status of the other two is unknown. Sir, how imminent is this threat?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “He could activate the array at any time.”

“We need to send runners to notify those units.”

Anyone he sent would be at risk It was a question of weighing the odds and deciding which was more acceptable, sending two men in to possibly die in the small chance that the units could make it back in time, or condemning the units to a certain death. The exact kind of decision he despised. “I need the fastest runners we have.”

“Sir! Unit three is returning.”

He left Hawkeye to deal with the runners. “Unit one?”

The soldier shook his head. “No word yet.”

The lieutenant in charge of unit three saluted as he approached. “Glad to see you’ve returned, Sir.”

“Did you pass any of the other units?”

“Negative, Sir. Archer sent us out in a fan pattern. Sir, what. . . .” The man hesitated, and Roy could see the doubt. “What are your orders regarding this new threat?”

“Remain on base until further notice.”

“Sir—”

“You will receive further orders as the situation develops—”

A sudden, blinding light interrupted them. Roy ducked behind his arms, squinting past them in terror to find the city engulfed in a dome of energy. He backed away, expecting it to surge into the base despite the scarred man’s words.

And then, as abruptly as it had appeared—the light was gone.

* * *

Ed could only stare at the city, his eyes still dazzled by the transmutation.

They’d tried. Tried to reason with the Ishvalan, then tried to stop him physically. In the end, it didn’t matter. Scar had turned on them. _Attacked_ them. Ed was only bruised but Al had been damaged, the armor deconstructed at the hip.

When his brother collapsed into pieces on the stone Ed had seen red, but Scar had been ready for him. He’d deconstructed the ground under his feet and then thrown him back so hard he’d been dazed.

And in that moment when they were both down, he’d activated the array.

Now where Liore had been was nothing but dunes. Buildings clung to the edges, many sheared in half. The section that had been commandeered by the army was untouched, but the bulk of the city, the entire heart of it—gone.

“Scar. . . .” Al’s quiet plea came from behind him, snapping Ed out of his stupor. “Scar, what did you _do_?”

Ed could see distant figures in blue dashing back and forth at the edges of the affected area. He had a sudden, horrible realization they were tending to wounded comrades, that buildings hadn’t been the only things caught at the edge.

He turned and leapt at the Ishvalan. “You—murdering _son of a bitch_!” He swung with his automail, again and again. “You’ve killed them—all those people—you—just—”

Scar caught his arm. A split second after Ed realized that he was gripping the metal with his _right_ hand the transmutation flared, and Ed was flung back amid a shower of metal.

He thudded into the sand and immediately scrabbled at his shoulder—his arm was still there. He looked down and found the back plate of his forearm gone and the rest of the casing cracked, but otherwise the arm was still there.

“Forget about the soldiers,” Scar spat. “They new the risks when they chose this life.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” Ed growled. He climbed to his feet but kept his distance, holding the damaged arm to his chest. “It doesn’t matter how you justify it. It’s still murder.”

“See to your brother. Stop wasting your concern on those who don’t deserve it.” He turned away, turned his back on them and headed for the center of this new wasteland.

Ed stumbled over to Al. He felt numb, detached. He supposed the enormity of what had just happened hadn’t fully sunken in yet.

“Sorry, Al. Sorry.” He dropped down to his knees and quickly swept the bits of metal together. “At least the ground is rocky here—shouldn’t pick up too much sand—”

“Brother, your arm—”

“It’s fine—”

Al grabbed his shoulders. “Brother, it’s about to _break_! Look at it!”

Ed did. The web of cracks had grown, and the casing was starting to bend where it shouldn’t.

“I can’t believe Scar did that!” Al continued.

Ed choked out a laugh. “You’re the one in pieces, Al.” He gingerly put his hands together and transmuted the casing back into a solid piece. The back plate he would have to do without. “This was just to warn us. Get us to back off. He could have—have—”

His throat closed on the words. They both knew what the Ishvalan was capable of. He bent to finish gathering the armor shards, the empty expanse of desert a heavy presence at his back.

“Why would he _do_ this . . .” Al moaned. “I thought—I-I thought—”

Ed shook his head, and quickly transmuted the armor back together. “We need to get out of here. The a-army—” _what’s left of them_ , “—the army will be searching this whole area. We can’t be here.”

The closest tunnel entrance would be in the city, but Ed couldn’t make himself head into that void. Couldn’t even make himself turn to look.

Al took one last, long look at what Scar had done, and then climbed to his feet and turned away as well. “All the landmarks are gone, anyway,” he reasoned. “We’d do better to head for the lake.”

The lake was a dry, ancient lakebed well outside of town, intended to be the exit when and if the people of Liore decided to leave their city. It might take them the better part of an hour traveling overland in the heat of the day to get there.

Ed’s feet felt rooted. The sooner they left, the better, but he couldn’t pull himself away. Almost against his will his eyes were drawn to the military base.

“I’m sure the colonel made it there in time,” Al said. Then added, “We should go, Brother.”

“. . . Yeah. You’re right.” He lowered his gaze to the dry, rocky ground in front of him and dragged his feet forward. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

Roy finally broke away from the chaos and sank down in the shade of a building. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the city had lit up like the sun at midday, but he was exhausted. They were still tending to the injured—those caught at the edge. The dead—and the missing—they hadn’t even begun counting.

Hawkeye walked up beside him and held out a canteen. He accepted it, only then realizing how dry his mouth was. “Sir? When did you last eat?”

He had to think back, dredging up what seemed like a lifetime ago. “Yesterday. Evening, probably.”

“You should eat something.”

He stared out at the men and women scrambling about the triage station set up in the courtyard. Others were out searching the city—or where the city had been—in what he feared was a vain effort.

Roy downed the last of the water, and dropped the empty canteen onto the stone ground. “What does it matter.”

“You did what you could, Sir.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

She turned to look out at the courtyard.

He sighed, and pushed himself back to his feet. “Has Central been notified?”

“Yes, Sir. They’re sending aid but can’t give us timeframe.”

“And?”

“And they want details on this incident as soon as we have them.”

“They’re going to be waiting for a while, then.”

“What do you plan to tell them?”

“The truth.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “We were attacked by strange, regenerating monsters, and ambushed by the scarred man.”

One of the medics was making his way over. The man looked dazed. “We’ve lost three more, Sir.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Their bodies have been sliced clean through—sheared off by something I can’t even imagine. What would do this? _Who_ would—?”

“The same kind of man who would burst someone apart from the inside,” Roy said. “How he did it isn’t important right now. Do any of the wounded have a chance?”

The medic glanced away with a grimace. “I . . . maybe. A few. The ones who didn’t lose more than a piece of a leg or arm. And even then, if we don’t get out of here soon their chances are small. We’re not equipped for this.”

“Central is sending aid. Do your best until then.”

He nodded. “Sir—they’ve brought in Lieutenant-Colonel Archer. He’s alive, but he’s in poor shape.”

“How poor?”

“If he lives, it will be a miracle.”

Roy drew a hand over his face. He had no love for Archer, but no one deserved _this_. “Do everything you can.” To Hawkeye he said, “Get me a line to Grumman. Maybe we can find a way to speed up this aid.”

She nodded and headed for the communications room, while the medic trudged back to his duties.

Roy paused for another moment to let the situation sink in. He’d been sent here to keep this from escalating and to minimize casualties, and he’d failed horribly. Now he couldn’t even accurately report on the number of deaths. He felt like a man trying to hold back a deluge with a single oar.

“What an unpleasant development.”

Roy jerked around and snatched his gloves, but Lust was looking past him.

The homunculus sighed, stepping around the far side of the building from wherever she had been lurking. “This doesn’t serve us _at all_ ,” she muttered, eyeing the catastrophe like she resented the inconvenience. “Father is going to be so displeased.”

“What do you want?” Roy demanded, his glove on and ready for any sign of aggression or threat. He had a strong urge to burn her out of hand but that wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Who is this ‘Father’?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She waved a hand at the destroyed city. “Go try to save your soldiers, Colonel. There isn’t nearly enough of them for our needs, now.”

“ _What_ needs?” he snapped. “What was your purpose here?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” With a last put-upon sigh Lust turned to leave. “Take care of yourself, Flame Alchemist. We may yet have a use for you.” 


	12. Chapter 11: Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy tried to make sense of the events in Liore.

"That's about it." Roy leaned against the bar. "The rest you know. Central command sent aid— _remarkably_ quickly given their previous remarks—"

"And then swept the lot of you out so fast they left skid marks," Hughes finished for him.

Roy swirled the dregs of his drink and muttered, "One might think they had something to hide."

This was one of Central's noisiest bars, and one of the best places to go if you wanted to minimize your chances of being overheard. They made a point of stopping here whenever Roy was in town whether they had business to discuss or not.

"What are you going to tell them at your debriefing?"

"The truth," Roy asserted. "That we were attacked by strange creatures, the likes of which I'd never seen before, and that the scarred man activated a city-wide array."

"The townsfolk and their tunnels?"

"The tunnel entrances seem to have been destroyed in the array."

"You hope."

"We _did_ search."

Hughes waved away the indignation. "As to the stuff that _won't_ make it into your report—you believe that kid's story?"

"I believe he wasn't lying." He drained the glass, staring up at the smoky overhead lights. "Ed is . . . very transparent. I know it's a lot of wild claims with some serious implications—"

"To say the least."

"—but I've been trying to poke holes in what he said ever since he told me, and so far—nothing." He shook his head. "Maybe you'll have better luck."

Hughes studied the array Roy had sketched on a napkin. "If there's any truth to this—to any of it—it changes the game. This is much more than incompetent leadership and arrogance."

"Agreed."

"But one step at a time." He crumpled the napkin and dropped into a nearby ashtray. Roy discreetly pulled on his glove and snapped, reducing it to ash. "I'll see what I can dig up. You concentrate on dancing around the Brass."

"When you put it _that_ way it sounds _bad_ ," Roy joked. He pushed his glass away and stood. "I'll likely be tied up for the next week, but I'll touch base before I leave Central."

"Sure—I should have _something_ by then. Oh, and Roy—" Hughes expression changed to a knowing smile and Roy inwardly groaned. "I did warn you about that kid."

He stared at the surface of the bar with its many stains from years and years of condensation rings. He wanted to defend himself, but anything he could think to say sounded hollow.

"You went and left yourself vulnerable, just like I said." When Roy didn't respond, he pressed, "Was it worth it?"

Roy wasn't sure he had an answer.

* * *

Did you see the array?

No. Only a small portion of the lines.

Why was that?

It was too large to see clearly.

You're certain the scarred man was responsible?

Based on the threats he made and the timing, yes.

Did you see him activate the array?

No, Sir.

So someone else could have activated it.

That would be unlikely.

But not impossible.

. . . No. Sir.

Your hostage was there as well?

Yes, Sir.

So he could have been the one to activate it.

I find that highly unlikely.

Why is that?

When I last saw him he was fighting with the scarred man.

But in theory, he could have.

I find it unlikely. Sir.

It was taking all of Roy's carefully honed skill not to reveal more than he wanted. The panel of generals had given no more than cursory attention to the strange monsters and their attack on the base, and seemed much more interested in the scarred man and in his hostage. If Roy had his druthers he'd give the military enough to hang Scar and then some, but keeping Ed and Alphonse out of their sights was taking an exceptional amount of finesse. Luckily no one else had seen Ed perform his peculiar circleless alchemy. The animated suit of armor could be lumped in with the strangeness of regenerating, shapeshifting monsters, as much as Roy felt like he was betraying to boy by doing so. But the panel seemed very aggravated that he had let his young hostage slip away—more aggravated than they were about losing an entire town and half of the soldiers there.

After three days Roy was at his limit. At least now the panel had retired to council and given him the evening to himself. He'd decided to take advantage and head to the bar—this time to drink.

Roy had put enough distance between himself and headquarters to allow himself to wince and rub the back of his neck. He had a definite tension headache coming on.

A flash of yellow-gold in the corner of his eye pulled him out of his thoughts. He stopped dead on the sidewalk and turned, but his initial rush of excitement and trepidation was replaced by confusion. He knew of only one person with that peculiar shade of blond, but the man he'd just passed was a good twenty years older and at least a foot taller. Something clicked, and on impulse he said, "Van Hohenheim?"

The man paused and turned, giving him a politely puzzled look behind his spectacles. It was surreal, seeing such a bland expression on features so close to Ed's. "Hm? I'm sorry young man, do I know you . . . ?"

"No," Roy clarified. "But I know your son."

His face lit up. "Ah! Edward? Or Alphonse? They've both grown so much since I left."

Roy took a step closer, studying this stranger and wondering how he could have sired such a spitfire. Perhaps Ed had inherited the looks but not the personality. "I've met them both. But I had more time to know Ed."

"Edward. . . ." His smile looked wistful. "He's a fine boy. I saw him when I went looking for my house. He punched me."

Roy covered a startled laugh with a cough as the other man finished with "I hadn't realized quite so much time had passed."

"How old were they when you last saw them?"

"Small . . . they were both such tiny things. I never meant to be gone so long." Van Hohenheim sighed. "They seem to have gotten themselves into trouble after they lost their mother. My dear Trisha . . . but Edward wouldn't talk to me."

"He's a teenager," Roy consoled. "But I might have gleaned a thing or two from him. Would you care for a drink?" Instinct and simple curiosity were telling him to keep this man talking.

Van Hohenheim seemed to think for a moment, and then smiled. "All right. We have some time yet."

* * *

Roy was finding that this Van Hohenheim—or whoever he really was—would be a very easy man to underestimate. Most of the time he acted like his mind was somewhere else, and then he would remark on some seemingly innocuous detail. But Roy recognized the same sharp intelligence that he'd seen in Ed's eyes, and it kept him on his guard. He was playing a different version of the same game he'd been playing with the generals, only this time he was even less sure of the stakes.

Hohenheim had a strange, distant smile as Roy finished summarizing the events in Liore. Roy thought it was an odd reaction given that he'd just described his children being in significant danger and he paused, letting the account dangle off during the confrontation with Scar.

"They've grown up," the man finally said into the gap Roy had left. "I'm glad."

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I follow."

Van Hohenheim tapped a finger against his mug. "To their last mistake, they reacted as children. Running away, trying to hide the evidence, and barreling forward with a child's stubborn insistence that everything can be put to right. That's why my house was gone."

"I'm sorry?"

"They'd burned it."

Roy blinked.

"The extreme reaction of children who are thinking in absolutes, as children will." He drained his mug and waved to the bar tender for another. "But now you've told me they've stayed in this town. To fix a mistake. That's very mature of them." He waited until the bar tender had migrated back down the bar, then continued. "I wonder though if they realize that it wasn't their mistake to begin with. But even so, I'm proud of them."

"Ed wasn't very forthcoming about why they were in Liore," Roy admitted.

"Chasing the Philosopher's Stone, no doubt."

Roy had guessed that much from Ed's venomous reaction to Cornello and his reportedly fake Stone, but he hadn't included those details in his recounting to Van Hohenheim.

"And, like children, the probably didn't stop to consider what was going on around them." He sighed. "I know I haven't seen much of my children in the last few . . . several . . . years, but Edward takes after me quite a bit."

Roy nearly choked on his drink at this.

"When I think of myself at his age," Hohenheim continued, oblivious to how absurd that statement had sounded, "I can only imagine that he and Alphonse were one of the sparks that helped ignite that bloodstain."

He was mixing metaphors but Roy was too busy coughing to point it out.

"They wouldn't have seen that it would have gone off with them or without them. Few would have had the perspective to see that."

"Actually," Roy hazarded, his mind whirling, "Ed was started to think something along those lines. He was becoming convinced that the military had orchestrated the entire conflict."

Van Hohenheim smiled, paternal pride clear on his face. "Smart boy."

Roy stared. "You think he might be right."

"He really is growing up," he mused. "He's starting to see the world around him instead of just his own tiny sphere."

Roy wasn't sure if that was intended as an answer or not.

"But, young man, you've left out something important," he continued. "Did the Ishvalan activate the array?"

Roy hadn't said what the booby trap had been, but he supposed that was an easy enough piece to put together. "He did."

"You can say that with certainty. The array was activated."

Roy bristled. "I was within meters of it."

"It absorbed everything?" His voice was still mild but his eyes had gone sharp. For a moment the familiar resemblance was clear.

"I had to tend to the men and women caught at the edge! To say nothing of the many who vanished completely."

"I am sorry for your soldiers. They didn't deserve to get caught in the middle."

"Caught in the middle of what?"

"Everything." He downed the rest of his drink and stood. "None of you deserve to get caught in this."

Roy grabbed his elbow. "Caught in _what_? Sir, if you know of some—some mess the military is involved in—"

Van Hohenheim looked at him with sadness bordering on pity. "The military is only another pawn." He calmly extracted his arm. "But don't concern yourself. Soon it won't matter anyway. One way or the other."

" _What_ won't matter—"

"But thank you."

Roy had started to grab for him again but the sudden emotion in his voice made him hesitate.

"For caring about my boys," he continued. "Especially Edward. It's nice to know he had someone like you. Even briefly."

With that parting remark he left Roy sputtering at the bar.

* * *

"So do you think he was _the_ Van Hohenheim?"

Roy sighed in exasperation. "I'm sure it's an assumed identity or a family name."

"Passed down the line for generations?"

"If you tear off your shirt and start flexing we're done here."

Hughes grinned and winked. "Not in _public_."

Roy smacked his shoulder but he was having a hard time not laughing himself. Today had been the last day of hearings and by all indications he and his command had escaped serious repercussions, and he was feeling the giddiness of having dodged a bullet. But he would be leaving Central tomorrow, which gave them little time.

"Be serious," he reprimanded. "Where you able to find anything?"

Hughes shook his head behind his mug. "It's what I _didn't_ find that's significant," he said as he lowered the drink. "I'm having to be careful so it's going slower than I'd like, but I looked into a number of the cases of wounded personnel from the last ten years or so. Most are unexceptional—there's either a record of recovery or a death certificate with a completely believable cause of death and then a burial record. But every so often there's a handful where the paper trail just dead ends. Sometimes in conflicting accounts. One or two could be written off as a clerical error, but there's juuuust a little too many happening a little too often for that."

"So there might be some truth to what Ed said."

"I wouldn't go that far yet. But it certainly doesn't contradict what the kid told you."

"Mm."

Roy stared down at his own drink. He had half hoped his friend would blow the claims apart. He'd built his entire framework on the assumption that the military was incompetent but not actively sinister—and now that foundation was being ripped out from underneath him one plank at a time.

"I'm still looking for patterns," Hughes continued. "I don't have enough data yet to be certain of anything, but I'm not liking the implications of what I'm finding."

Roy nodded. "But for now, we stay our course. I don't want to act until we have something solid."

"And maybe by then we'll have figured out what that action needs to be?"

Roy sighed and dropped his head. "I hadn't wanted to quite _say_ that."

"That's what I'm here for." Hughes clapped him on the back. "I gotta say, Roy. You somehow managed to pick the most useful hostage any field commander has had in a long time. And if your superiors knew why they would call you soft."

Maybe it was the stress, maybe he'd had more to drink than he'd planned, but Roy found himself muttering "They wouldn't be wrong."

"Yeah? Maybe not." Hughes leaned in close. "But don't knock it. That soft heart is why we need you at the top, Roy—don't forget that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed: I didn't show up in this chapter at _all_ , what the _fuck_.  
>  Me: Don't look at me, you faffed off and forgot to bring the plot with you.


	13. Chapter 12: Eyes Wide Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy might be poised to get some answers—and a lot more questions.

“We’re still getting reports from Yousewell that are . . . somewhat suspect,” Grumman said as he moved his bishop to block the path of Roy’s rook.“But Central doesn’t seem concerned.I don’t think they’ve even read the last two memos I sent.”

Roy took his time considering the board.“The last unit they sent out that waynever made it.”

“Yes, and we know how that worked out.”

Roy made his move and declared a “Check.I highly doubt the loss of men has made them gun-shy.You know we’re just battlefield fodder to them.”

“Some of us more than others,” Grumman said as he blocked the play.“What concerns me now is that they’ve been leaving us alone.”

That had been bothering Roy as well.He hadn’t expected his reports to be accepted by the generals so easily.“One might think they had something else on their minds.”

“It does seem that way.”He countered Roy’s last move and declared “Checkmate.”He smiled at Roy’s indignant frown.“Looks like the brass aren’t the only ones preoccupied right now.”

Roy sighed and leaned back in his chair.“I’m . . . still a bit shaken.That’s all.”

“Mmm.I don’t envy you there,” Grumman said as he cleaned up the board.“But would this have more to do with what _didn’t_ make it into your report?”

Roy stared hard at his superior.He trusted Grumman more than any other general, but that wasn’t saying much.“It’s nothing the military doesn’t already have knowledge of,” he measured out.

“Hm.Officially or unofficially?”

He smirked at the move.

Grumman idly tapped a piece against the table.“Hm. . . . You’re one of the alchemists who got one of those ‘amplifiers’ during the war, aren’t you?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t hard to figure out from the damage and casualty reports,” Grumman elaborated.“Even if I hadn’t been a field commander then.”

“I see.”

“I wanted to know more, of course.It concerned me.Throwing around that much power.But when I enquired back at Central, General Raven sidestepped the question and asked me how I would like to have an immortal army.”

It took all of Roy’s discipline not to react.

“I suppose he didn’t like my answer.”

“If I may, Sir?”

“‘Immortality is useless.’Must have sounded less than enthusiastic.”He placed the piece in its proper cubby with the others.“Right after that I got pulled from field command and transferred out here.You know the East is one of their dumping grounds, right?”

“I had had my suspicions,” Roy admitted.

“Anyone they don’t want to deal with.Anyone who loses favor or whose vision doesn’t align with theirs.The Brass dumps them here.Here or Briggs.”

“Get the undesirable ones out of the way and keep them busy with the two most volatile regions of the country?”

“That seems to be the idea.”

“Still, it doesn’t seem very wise to group all your potential dissenters in one place.”

“Not unless there’s some reason for them to think those dissenters couldn’t be a threat.”

Roy fell quiet, everything Ed had told him playing over in his mind once again.It seemed to have been all he thought about for weeks now.

“I can’t help but wonder,” Grumman continued, “if those unusual creatures you hinted at in your report are connected to that ‘immortal army’ Raven tried to temp me with.”

“I couldn’t say, Sir,” Roy hedged.“But . . . I do have some reason to suspect that they’re tied somehow to those—‘experimental substances’ we had the privilege of ‘testing’ back in Ishval.”

Grumman nodded.The old man looked tired, but Roy didn’t miss the shrewd calculation in his eyes.

“It’s a heavy accusation to throw around—”

“I haven’t made any accusations, Sir.”

“No.Of course you haven’t.You’ve been very careful about that.”

The general was watching him with fond amusement, and finally Roy acknowledged the play with a smirk.

“But as I was saying, if any part of this is true—we’re going to have our work cut out for us.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Grumman dismissed him with a wave.“Now get back to your team.Tell them to stop slacking off and leave for the day.”

He suppressed a grin as he stood and saluted.

The talk weighed on him as he walked back to the office.It was one thing to entertain his own paranoid suspicions, but quite another to have his superior corroborating.

Roy was so lost in thought when he got back to his office that he only absently noted the phone ringing.He picked it up with a distracted “Mustang.”

“Sir.It’s Lieutenant Colonel Hughes calling from an outside line,” the operator told him.“Shall I put it through?”

* * *

The impact threw him into the back of the phone booth.

Hughes hung there for a split second as the world around him seemed to explode before he slid to the ground.His entire chest was on fire.

A heartbeat passed.

Was he dead?

Another heartbeat.

His heart seemed to still be beating.

For now.

Was that—that _thing_ that had taken his Gracia’s shape still—

Hands grabbed at his shoulders with frantic urgency.He looked up and met the eyes of a young man bent over him—his brain automatically catalogued _mid-teens, blond, pale eyes_.Unfamiliar.But something about him. . . .

The kid snatched the dangling receiver and shouted into it, “Get an ambulance here, now!Corner of—of—Griffen and Main!”

Just as quickly he dropped the phone and whirled around, and Hughes finally took in the world beyond the phone booth.The— _creature_ —that had attacked him was picking itself off of spikes—spikes that hadn’t been there a moment ago.Something in the kid’s hands crackled and flashed and he charged at the creature, with a deadly-looking blade aimed to kill.

Hughes took a careful breath and looked down, tracing the red bloom on his chest back to its source.

Missed his heart.Just.Punctured lung.Major bleeding.Likely fatal—but not immediately.

His next breath sent him coughing, splattering even more blood.Definite punctured lung.He clenched his teeth and clamped down on the reflex.Took a shallow breath.

He could hear a tinny voice on the other end of the phone line.Roy.Raising a leadened hand he grabbed the receiver and pulled it toward him—not long enough.He gritted his teeth and pushed himself closer, managing to slide just those few inches.“Roy.”

“ _Hughes!What happened?Who’s injured?Who was_ —”

“ _Roy_.Shut up and listen.”

He breathed in, suppressing another cough.

“It’s the military.The military’s in danger—from the top.It’s—”The cough overwhelmed him and he had to pause as the blood threatened to clog his throat.“It’s old—” he forced out.“Been going on for—centuries—”

He nearly blacked out from the coughing fit.Hughes pressed back against the wall of the booth and forced himself to take steady, even breaths.

The sound of Roy saying his name was distant.Must be the phone line.

“That array,” Hughes continued as soon as he had the breath.“It matches up.Every war—major skirmish—matches up.The only—point missing—is—”

The receiver slipped from his hand as he choked and coughed.Didn’t matter.He’d passed along enough.

Roy’s voice sounded desperate but he couldn’t lift his hand to the phone this time.Nothing wanted to move.

He could hear sirens approaching, and wondered in a detached way if they would get there before he bled out.

His eyes focused on the young man, locked in a deadly dance with the monster.Funny.In the evening light the kid looked golden.

* * *

The earliest train got them to Central mid-morning.They were met at the station by a young sergeant whose name Roy forgot as soon as he said it.He briefed them on the way:Hughes was out of surgery, and conscious.Major Armstrong was currently overseeing security.

Which meant no one higher up had moved in yet.

“Is there any record of what Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes had been investigating before he was attacked?”Roy asked.Sounding neutral was easy when he felt so numb.

“I’m afraid not, Sir,” the sergeant—Blosh or Brock or something, he would have to ask Hawkeye later—told him.“The records room was in disarray.It doesn’t seem as if the lieutenant-colonel had been taking notes.”

“I see.”

He wouldn’t have been.Hughes was too cautious to leave notes.

When they got to the hospital the sergeant escorted them to a room in the ICU.Major Armstrong was standing guard along with one of his lieutenants.Roy nodded at their salutes.Hawkeye took up position beside them to wait as Armstrong opened the door.

Gracia stood as he entered.Roy hesitated, but she waved off his attempts to apologize, saying she could use some breakfast and needed to check on Elysia.One look at her told him she hadn’t slept any than he had.But she put on a brave smile as she leaned over to kiss her husband’s forehead before she left.

Roy held himself in check as the door shut.He needed to evaluate the situation the same as he would for any other comrade.The tubes and oxygen mask.The thick bandages.The medical report he had been briefed on.“I hope this was worth it.”

Hughes’ weak chuckle sounded more like a wheeze.“Well, the .32 in my chest suggests it’s worth _something_.”

“This is a fine time to be joking—”

“Ah, what else am I going to do?”He shifted against the bed with a wince.“If I didn’t laugh I’d have to admit just how spectacularly in over our heads we are.”

Roy lowered himself into the visitor’s chair with a sigh.“This wasn’t. . . .”Despite his best efforts his throat threatened to close up.He swallowed.“This— _damn_ it, you weren’t supposed to be the one in danger.”

“Best laid plans, Roy.I signed on for this with my eyes wide open.Same as you.”

He lifted his hand.Roy gripped it between both of his, and stopped pretending he had any kind of composure.He squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head, and for a long moment simply sat with his face pressed against this friend’s fingers.

“God, Maes,” he said once his voice had returned.“Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry.”

Roy collected himself, lowing their hands to the mattress.“Is it safe to talk?”

“As safe as it can be,” Hughes said.“Armstrong has done what he can about the room, and everyone outside is either his man or mine.”

“Good.”

“You want to know what won’t make it into the official debriefing.”

“Every bit of it.”

“Well. . . .”He shifted again.“ _Officially_ , I didn’t recognize the attacker.That’s true enough.But it’s because I’m not sure I ever saw the thing’s real shape.”

“What—?”

“Unless there’s more than one of those form-changing monsters, it was your friend Envy.”

Roy’s jaw clenched.“Was he alone?”

“No.A woman in black attacked me at headquarters.Lust, I’m guessing?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Hughes grimaced.“Envy—he tried to fool me by looking like Lieutenant Ross, and when that didn’t work. . . .”

“Whose form did he take?”

He sighed.“Gracia.That son of a bitch—he shifted right in front of me.I _knew_ it wasn’t her—”

“But you hesitated,” Roy supplied.“And he was counting on that.”

“Don’t let her know.I don’t want Gracia to get the idea that any part of this is her fault.Even indirectly.”

Roy squeezed his hand and nodded.

“Son of a bitch . . . knew I couldn’t attack my own wife. . . .”

Hughes was fighting unconsciousness.Roy knew he should leave him to rest, but one more question ate at him.

“Hughes?Who was that on the phone?The one who told me to call the ambulance.”The frantic, anxious voice kept playing over in his mind.

“Oh. . . .”He blinked himself back awake with some effort.“Some kid.Came out of nowhere.Just . . . started fighting that monster. . . .”

“Who?What did he look like?”

“Mm . . . do you remember the story of Xerxes, Roy?The vanished city-state out in the desert?”

“What does that have to do with any of this?”

“. . . Fascinating mystery . . . all we have of them are the ruins and a few accounts from ancient Creta. . . .”

“Hughes. . . .”Roy was trying not to get frustrated.

“Ancient Cretans . . . called them the Golden People.This kid. . . .”

“. . . What about the kid?Hughes?”

No answer.

Roy sighed and laid his hand down on the blankets.After watching his friend’s chest rise and fall several times, he stood to leave.He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that last bit of information, but he had other things to tend to.

Out in the hall Roy turned to Major Armstrong.“Has the investigation into the attack been started?”

“It has.”

“Any leads?”

“For the time being, I have been left with the task of ensuring Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes’ safety.But I’ve been given to understand that we have a fair idea of the identities of the ones behind it.”

“Well?Has anyone gone to arrest them?”

“I’m sorry, Sir.We have an _idea_ , but we don’t know _who_ or _what_ they are.”

“Explain.”

“I cannot.”

“I am _ordering_ you to explain.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.I cannot.”After a brief pause, he repeated, “My task right now is ensuring the safety of Lieutenant-Colonel Hughes.”

“I see.”He nodded.As he started to step away, he added, “Oh—you’ll be off shift in a few hours, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ring me up at the hotel.We’ll grab a drink.”

Once they were away from the hospital Lieutenant Hawkeye turned to him.“Sir?Do you think the Major will be more forthcoming off duty?”

“No, not at all.I suspect he’s already told us everything his orders would allow.There are other matters he and I need to discuss.”He paused on the sidewalk and pulled out his notebook and pen.“In the meantime, I need you to contact these people.It’s important that I speak with them _today_ , as soon as possible.”He tore out the short list of names and handed it to her.“I’ll meet you at the hotel in an hour.”He hesitated for a brief moment before deciding that, personal feelings or not, he did have legitimate, impartial reasons for looking into this.“I have some research to do.”

* * *

Roy had given himself barely half an hour, so was aggravated to find the library in a state of what could only be called controlled panic.When he finally did manage to flag down a librarian he found out that they’d had a break-in the night before.

“We’ve been suspecting someone was breaking in here for several days now,” she told him, “but now we’re sure.”

Nothing was missing, and as far as they could tell the most valuable or sensitive materials hadn’t been disturbed.But books from all over the general collection had been pulled from the shelves and left dumped on the floor.Theory was that their burglar had gotten spooked.

An attack and a break-in on the same night was a hell of a coincidence.

With all the commotion Roy could do no more than skim through the materials.Enough to tease his growing suspicions, but not enough to find any real answers.But as much as he wanted to delve into this new wrinkle in the mystery, certain things couldn’t wait.Hawkeye would have done what he requested by now.

The rest of the day was a blur of planning, negotiating, contingencies, and more planning.He was already exhausted but time was of the essence.

By the time he could stop and take a breath it was well into evening.The library would be long closed.It was probably just as well; right now he didn’t feel up to much.All he wanted to do now was get to the hotel and crash—and maybe have a drink.He deserved a drink.

Roy paused at a newsstand.He knew he shouldn’t, that as tired as he was it would be hard not to let emotion seep through, but he couldn’t help himself from glancing at the headline in the evening paper:

Officer attacked outside Central HQ succumbs to injuries

Well.

Sirens jarred him out of his reverie.He jerked his head up and saw a column of smoke, a thick black slash against the sunset.Right where Central Library would be.

This was too many coincidences.

He was stopped by the MPs several blocks from the blaze.He considered pulling rank or flashing his watch, but he knew there was no point.One look told him that the fire was already too large and the area too uncontrolled.That didn’t stop him from clutching at the glove in his pocket and making the attempt, but the moment he shifted a quantity of oxygen away from one area the updraft undid his efforts.

No accidental fire would have spread this far, this fast.Someone had wanted the Central First Branch Library destroyed.

A hand grabbed his arm and he jerked back, his glove was halfway on and his fingers tensing to snap before he registered just who was glaring up at him.

After everything today, he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ed snapped at him.The firelight had turned him coppery.He looked almost etherial.“And why the hell aren’t you doing anything?You’re the fucking _Flame_ Alchemist!”

“Don’t you think I’ve been trying?” he snapped back.He grabbed Ed’s shoulder and pushed him to a nearby ally, where he could all too clearly see the suit of armor looming there in the shadows.“I should be asking _you_ what your business is.Aside from breaking into the building we’re now watching burn.”

Ed tripped and stumbled.“U-um—”

Roy scoffed and hauled him upright.They were around the corner now and should be out of sight of the MPs.“I should be arresting you.Breaking into the First Branch is not something the military takes lightly.Not to mention whatever connection you may have to this sudden and suspiciously timed fire.”

“We’ve got nothing to do with it!” Ed protested.“Why the hell would be want to _burn_ it when we’re trying to—”

“Broth- _er_ ,” Al cut in just a moment too late.

“Uh-uhh—um.”

Roy smirked, and allow his temper to cool somewhat.Ed was entirely too transparent.

“You _should_ be arresting us, Sir?” Al prompted after his brother had finally stopped incriminating himself.

“Mm.I should.”He looked between them.Ed’s peculiar hair was vivid even in the shadows, set off by the black clothes he was wearing.Golden.“But I owe you.”

“Huh?”

He smiled at Ed’s oblivious reply.“The man you helped by the phone booth.Outside headquarters.”He watched the realization dawn.That was all the confirmation as he needed.“He’s—a friend of mine.”

Surprise and then sorrow flickered across Ed’s face.“But—he died.He died anyway.The papers—”

“Ah.Yes.”He finally let himself show some satisfaction at a job well done.“You see, the thing about newspapers—they’re only as accurate as their source.”

Ed stared at him for a moment, and then a grin of understanding spread across his face.“Son of a _bitch_.What did you do?Where is he?”

“Somewhere safe.Which is more than I can say about the two of you,” he pressed.“I’m not sure you fully appreciate the risk you’ve been taking.”

“We were looking for something!” Al jumped to explain.“Something that—that had information about the military and . . . and the Stone.”

Roy could have guessed as much.But he wasn’t convinced that justified it.

Ed glanced up at his brother.“We—shit.Someone could get into a lot of trouble if we tell you.”

He sighed.“If it helps, we are— _technically_ —not even having this conversation.Because _officially_ , the two of you were among the missing-and-presumed-dead in Liore.”

Ed’s face went through a complex of emotions, finally landing on a grin that looked a little too forced.“Just like your friend is _officially_ dead?”

“Precisely.”

The brothers shared another look, and then Al started; “A couple years ago, when we were chasing rumors of the Stone, we . . . ran into someone.He wouldn’t tell us much, not then, but—after what happened—and what you told us—”

“He used to be military,” Ed added.

“A defector?”

“I guess.Point is, since we had to go home to get my arm fixed anyway and his town’s on the way. . . .”

“And—?”

“And . . .”Ed rubbed the back of his neck.“He finally told us some shit.”

“After we told him what happened with Scar and everything—he told us where he hid his research notes,” Al clarified.

“The First Branch Library?” Roy guessed.“Who else knew?”

“No one!” Ed insisted.“We haven’t told anyone!”

“And we’ve been careful!”Al added.“We’ve been staying underground—literally—”

“Except. . . .”Ed cringed.“Except maybe last night.When I ran out after Envy.”

Roy sighed.“Well . . . I can hardly be angry at you for that.But . . . I guess that’s the end of it.If your friend truly did have a record of inside information, it’s gone now.”He immediately ran though several possibilities but in his exhausted state came up with nothing that sounded feasible.A defector—a former state alchemist, from the sound of it—would have no reason to trust him, even if he decided it was worth the risk to establish contact.“But we could have used that information.After what Hughes told me. . . .”

He caught himself.He liked Ed and, yes, even trusted him, as well as his armored brother, but this was bigger than his personal feelings.Caution was important.

Ed scratched a hand through his hair.“There’s . . . someone else we could talk to.Who might know even more.Maybe not about what M—ah, this guy had been doing, but . . . about the rest of it.But it’s.It might not be the safest thing.”

“Brother. . . .”

“How much of a risk are we talking here?”

“Well—probably no one will die?”

Al sighed and muttered something about exaggeration.

Roy scoffed.“At this point?That sounds like an improvement.”

He looked back at the remains of the library, weighing his options.None of them were good.“Where is this other source of yours?”

“Dublith.”

“Give me two weeks, and I’ll meet you down there.Until then—for the love of sanity _lay low_.”

“ _Fine_ , fine.You better be there.”

Ed turned and got two steps down the alley, then paused.

“Say um . . . At Liore.How—how many—”

Roy sighed.He briefly considered not answering, but by now they were past the point where he could protect this young man from anything.But that didn’t stop the urge.“Thirty-eight.”

Ed sucked in a breath, and beside him Al made a distressed noise.

“Thirty-eight soldiers dead or missing,” he repeated.“Nine survived with injuries.”

“What—what about—Lieutenant Havoc,” Al asked.“And—and the one that Gluttony. . . .”

“Sergeant-Major Wills unfortunately lost his arm thanks to Gluttony, but he was in good spirits the last time I spoke with him.As for Havoc—” He smiled.“—It’s all we can do to get him to follow doctor’s orders and rest.He despises being inactive.”

It was hard to tell in the dark, but Ed seemed to relax a little.“Hey, um—”He rubbed his right arm.“Tell that guy—Wills?—tell him if he wants a new arm, he should head to the Rockbells.In Resembool.Tell him to give them my name—can’t guarantee it’ll get him a discount, but he’ll be getting the best damn automail money can buy.”

“I’ll pass it along. _If_ you promise me that the two of you will stop flirting with getting arrested.”

“ _All right_ , all right.We’ll . . . see what we can do.”

“Hmph.Just where have you been staying?”There were places where even an animated suit of armor would go unreported, but they weren’t exactly the safest corners of Central.

“With some of the refugees,” Al said.“The Ishvalans.”

That was probably the least-bad place for them, considering.

He motioned for them to make themselves scarce.“That _wasn’t_ a promise,” he muttered.

Ed waved back over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew that having your AU bump up against canon but not really would be so much of a headache :C


End file.
